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1 

[J  JJBBJ  I 


EDITED  BY 


MRS.    R.    FRAZIER. 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 
BACON  &  COMPANY,  BOOK  AND  JOB  PRINTERS, 

Corner  Clay  and  Sansome  Streets. 

1877. 


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M 

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,    THE   OFFICERS  AND   SOLDIERS  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES  ARMY, 


THIS  VOLUME 


IS      RESPECTFULLY      DEDICATED, 

Ll_i 

CO 


MBS.  R.  FRAZIER. 


"  As  tiresome  as  a  preface  "  is  a  saying  so  trite 
as  to  have  passed  into  a  proverb,  yet  how  unkind  a 
cut,  thus  to  stigmatize  what  is  so  difficult  to  write, 
and  what  one  is  so  often  at  one's  wits'  end  to  know 
how  to  achieve.  Such,  at  this  moment,  is  our  own 
case. 

I  had  in  contemplation  writing  a  history  of  events 
in  California  ;  but  to  repeat  what  has  so  often  been 
written  would  be  futile.  To  our  contributors  we  ex 
press  our  thanks  for  their  valuable  articles.  We  feel 
assured  that  our  readers  will  be  amply  repaid  by 
their  perusal.  Having  during  the  late  war  offered 
my  services,  and  been  accepted,  as  nurse  in  the  hos 
pitals,  and  being  familiar  with  so  many  incidents  that 
are  given  by  the  inimitable  writer  of  "  The  Life  of 
the  Soldier,"  I  could  not  forbear  inserting  a  few 
pages,  as  they  recalled  those  never  to  be  forgotten 
days  during  my  sojourn  among  our  brave  soldiers. 

Several  years  ago,  I  published  in  pamphlet  form 
a  work  entitled  "  Reminiscences  of  Travel " ;  but 


6  PREFACE. 

although  I  sold  the  four  thousand,  the  profit  was 
insufficient  to  finish  what  I  began — a  house  for  a 
Boarding  and  Unsectarian  School  for  Girls.  I 
therefore  determined,  with  the  aid  of  contributors, 
to  publish  a  larger  work,  with  the  view  of  com 
pleting  the  building,  which  is  herewith  presented 
to  a  generous  public. 

With  thanks  to  my  former  friends,  I  again  solicit 
your  patronage  for  the  work  which  I  have  carefully 
and  conscientiously  prepared. 

R.   FEAZIER. 


CONTENTS, 


Siege  and  Capture  of  Port  Hudson  .....................  9 

Lessons  of  a  Journey  ................................  41 

Milwaukee  .........................................  50 

Marrying  a  Fortune  ..................................  56 

The  Pumpkin  Pie  ........................  ,  ......  .....  6tt 

Poetry  .............................................  75 

Traveling  through  Oregon  .............................  87 

Albany  ........................................  92 

Salem  ..........................................  98 

Portland  ......................................  94 

Washington  Territory  .......................  _____  95 

Seattle  ........................................  9fi 

Vancouver  .....................................  97 

British  Columbia  ...................  .............  98 

The  Witch,  a  New  England  Tale—  Chapter  I  .............  105 

Chapter  II  ......................................  119 

Chapter  III.  .    .............................  _____  128 

Chapter  IV  .....................................  132 

Inward  Resources  ....................................  148 

The  Hazard  Table  ...................................  158 

Idleness  ............................................  173 

Dishonesty  .........................................  188 

New  England  Thanksgiving  Dinner  Festivals  .............  194 

Lines  Composed  while  Ascending  the  Mississippi  ..........  200 


8  CONTENTS. 

Mrs.  Winfield's  Visit 203 

The  Life  of  the  Soldier , 231 

In   Camp 242 

Off  for  the  Field 250 

Into  Virginia 267 

John  Cutts'  Secret 283 

The  Rich  Uncle 291 

Is  Republicanism  a  Failure  ? 814 

A  Few  Remarks  on  the  subject  of  Wearing  Apparel 348 


kqd  dkcptttfe   of  fWt 


BY   JOHN    S.    C.    ABBOTT. 

?HE  passage  by  the  Union  gun-boats  of  the  tre 
mendous  batteries  which  the  rebels  had  erect 
ed  at  Port  Hudson,  was  one  of  the  most  heroic 
deeds  of  the  war.  Port  Hudson,  or  Hickey's  Land 
ing,  as  it  used  to  be  called,  is  situated  on  a  bend  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  Mississippi  River,  about  twenty- 
two  miles  above  Baton  Rouge,  and  one  hundred  and 
forty-seven  above  New  Orleans.  It  was  three  hun 
dred  miles  below  Vicksburg.  The  bluff,  rising  forty 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  river,  was  covered  with 
forts  for  a  distance  of  nearly  four  miles,  constructed 
upon  the  most  scientific  principles  of  modern  military 
art,  and  armed  with  the  most  approved  and  heaviest 
ordnance  which  England,  seeking  the  ruin  of  our 
republic,  could  furnish  the  rebels.  The  river,  just 
at  the  bend,  suddenly  narrows,  and  the  current, 
striking  upon  the  west  bank,  is  thrown  across,  run 
ning  with  great  velocity,  and  carrying  the  channel 
almost  directly  under  the  base  of  the  precipitous 
cliffs.  Any  vessel  attempting  the  passage  would  be 


10  SIEGE   AND   CAPTURE 

compelled  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  plunging  fire  from 
batteries  which  commanded  the  range  for  several 
miles  above  and  below. 

It  was  proposed,  in  order  that  our  fleet  might  be 
able  to  co-operate  with  General  Grant  in  the  siege  of 
Vicksburg,  to  attack  Port  Hudson,  and,  under  the  fire 
of  the  bombardment,  to  attempt  to  force  a  passage,  by 
several  of  our  gun-boats,  up  the  river.  Rear-Ad 
miral  Farragut,  who  was  entrusted  with  this  perilous 
adventure,  was  the  man  for  the  hour.  He  had 
already  acquired  world-wide  renown  in  the  capture 
of  New  Orleans,  a  feat  for  which  no  parallel  can  be 
found  in  the  annals  of  naval  warfare. 

This  distinguished  officer  was  born  in  Tennessee, 
in  1803.  His  father  was  an  army  officer,  much  es 
teemed  by  General  Jackson.  When  but  nine  years 
of  age,  the  boy,  David  Glasgow  Farragut,  entered 
the  navy  as  a  midshipman  under  Commodore  Porter. 
From  earliest  childhood  he  has  developed  alike 
grandeur  and  magnanimity  of  character.  Nursed 
in  the  midst  of  hardships  and  perils,  he  has  ever 
proved  himself  adequate  to  any  emergency.  A 
Southerner  by  birth,  he  married  a  Southern  lady,  es 
tablished  his  home  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  and  was 
mainly  surrounded  by  those  whose  sympathies  were 
with  the  rebellion.  But  nobly  he  proved  true  to  his 
country  and  his  flag.  As  the  madness  of  secession 
seized  upon  the  community,  Admiral  Farragut,  in  his 
own  home  at  Norfolk,  expressed,  with  a  sailor's 
frankness,  his  decided  opposition  to  the  disloyal  pro 
ceedings. 


OF  PORT   HUDSON.  11 

"  You  cannot  be  permitted  to  remain  here,"  said 
the  traitors,  "  while  you  hold  such  sentiments." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  Admiral,  "I  will  then 
go  where  I  can  live  with  such  sentiments." 

He  knew  the  temper  of  the  rebels,  and  went  home 
and  informed  his  family  that  they  must  take  their 
departure  from  Norfolk  for  New  York  in  a  few  hours. 
He  left  the  next  morning,  April  18th,  1861.  The 
next  night  the  navy-yard  was  burned.  When  he 
arrived  in  Baltimore  he  found  that  the  rebel  mob  had 
possession  of  the  streets,  having  torn  up  the  railroad 
track.  With  difficulty  he  secured  a  passage  to  the 
North  in  a  canal-boat.  Reaching  New  York,  he  ob 
tained  a  safe  retreat  for  his  family  at  Hastings,  on 
the  Hudson,  and  then  went  forth  to  battle  for  that 
banner  beneath  which  he  had  proudly  sailed  for  more 
than  half  a  century.  Had  he  remained  in  Norfolk 
a  day  longer  he  would  have  been  imprisoned  and  per 
haps  hung  for  his  loyalty. 

Treason  in  the  Cabinet  had  scattered  all  our  ships, 
that  there  might  be  no  naval  force  at  hand  to  oppose 
the  rebels.  For  several  months  Admiral  Farragut 
had  no  command,  simply  because  the  Government 
had  no  vessel  to  give  him.  At  length,  when  the  na 
val  expedition  was  fitted  out  against  New  Orleans, 
he  was  selected  as  the  right  man  to  lead  it.  With 
his  entire  fleet,  in  an  engagement  which  impartial 
history  has  pronounced  almost  superhuman  in  its 
daring  and  its  accomplishment,  he  ran  the  batteries, 
surmounted  all  the  obstructions  in  the  river,  and 
crushed  the  gun-boats  of  the  enemy — aided,  hero- 


12  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

ically  aided,  by  Commodore  Porter  with  his  mortar- 
boats.  On  the  25th  of  April,  1862,  he  anchored 
before  the  city  which  treason  had  seized.  Under  the 
menace  of  his  guns  he  compelled  every  rebel  flag  to 
go  down  into  the  dust.  For  this  achievement  he  was 
elevated  to  the  rank  of  Rear- Admiral ;  and  probably 
now,  after  his  achievements  at  Port  Hudson  and  Mo 
bile,  no  one  will  dispute  his  title  to  be  the  foremost 
naval  hero  of  the  war.  Such  was  the  man  who  was 
entrusted  with  the  command  of  the  fleet  which  was 
destined  to  run  the  batteries  of  Port  Hudson. 

The  following  anecdote  illustrative  of  his  character 
is  worthy  of  record.  The  Admiral  has  always  been 
from  boyhood,  thoughtful,  earnest,  studious.  While 
in  foreign  ports,  he  was  ever  busy  in  acquiring  the 
language  of  the  people.  He  spoke  Italian,  Spanish, 
French,  and  Arabic  with  almost  as  much  fluency  as 
his  own  language.  On  one  occasion,  in  approaching 
an  island  in  the  Mediterranean,  the  captain  of  the 
ship  remarked  that  he  did  not  know  how  he  should 
communicate  with  the  people,  as  he  had  no  inter 
preter.  Just  then  a  boat  came  alongside  filled 
with  natives. 

"  Captain,"  said  one  of  the  officers, "  we  have  an 
officer  on  board  who  seems  to  speak  all  languages. 
He  is  doubtless  in  league  with  the  '  Old  Boy.'  Sup 
pose  you  send  for  him." 

Lieutenant  Farragut  was  called  for.  He  looked 
into  the  boat  and  saw  an  old  Arab  woman  there, 
with  whom  he  immediately  entered  into  conversation, 
alike  to  the  surprise  and  amusement  of  all. 


OF   PORT  HUDSON.  13 

Eight  war  vessels  comprised  the  expedition  to  as 
cend  the  Mississippi  from  New  Orleans.  The 
splendid  flag-ship  Hartford  led,  a  first-class  steam 
sloop  of  war.  Her  armament  consisted  of  twenty- 
six  8  and  9  inch  Paixhan  guns.  Then  came  the 
Richmond,  a  ship  of  the  same  class,  armed  with 
twenty-six  8  and  9  inch  Columbiads.  The  first-class 
steam  sloop  of  war  Mississippi  followed,  with  twenty- 
two  guns  of  the  same  calibre.  The  Monongahela, 
a  second-class  steam  sloop,  carried  sixteen  heavy 
guns.  The  gun-boats  Kineo,  Albatross,  Sachem, 
and  Gf-enesee  followed,  each  carrying  three  Columbi 
ads  and  two  rifled  32-pounders.  All  these  vessels 
were  screw  propellers,  except  the  Mississippi,  which 
was  a  side-wheel  steamer. 

This  little  fleet  ascended  the  river  from  New  Or 
leans,  and  passing  the  smouldering  ruins  of  Baton 
Rouge,  the  capital  of  Louisiana,  anchored,  on  the 
morning  of  the  14th  of  April,  1863,  a  few  miles  be 
low  the  long  series  of  rebel  batteries  at  Port  Hudson. 
In  ascending  the  river,  the  starboard  sides  alone  of 
the  ships  would  be  exposed  to  the  fire  of  the  rebels, 
and  the  starboard  guns  alone  could  be  called  into 
action.  Every  precaution  was  adopted  in  prepara 
tion  for  the  terrible  ordeal.  The  bulwarks  consisted 
of  solid  timber,  fifteen  inches  in  thickness,  impervi 
ous  to  bullets,  but  offering  but  little  resistance  to 
solid  shot  or  shells.  One  remarkable  feature  of  the 
preparation  is  worthy  of  especial  notice.  The  pas 
sage  was  to  be  attempted  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night.  It  would  not  be  safe  to  have  any  light  upon 


14  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

the  deck,  as  that  would  guide  the  fire  of  the  foe. 
The  simple  yet  ingenious  measure  was  adopted  of 
whitewashing  the  deck,  the  gun-carriages,  and  net 
tings,  so  that  the  stands  of  grape  and  canister  were 
as  visible  as  a  black  hat  would  be  upon  drifted  snow. 
The  effect  of  this  contrivance  struck  all  with  sur 
prise. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  squadron  reached 
Prophet's  Island,  from  which  place  the  frowning  bat 
teries  of  the  rebels  could  be  plainly  seen.  Six 
mortar-boats,  prepared  to  take  part  in  the  bombard 
ment,  but  not  designed  to  run  the  batteries,  were 
here  moored  along  the  shore.  They  threw  ponder 
ous  missiles,  more  destructive  than  the  mythological 
bolts  of  Jove.  At  half-past  one  o'clock  these  mortars 
opened  fire,  at  a  signal- gun  from  the  Hartford,  to 
try  their  range.  The  shells  rose  majestically  into 
the  air,  through  a  curve  of  between  three  and  four 
miles,  and  exploded  over  the  rebel  guns,  without  ap 
parently  doing  much  harm.  In  the  mean  time,  a 
small  land  force,  which  had  been  sent  by  back-coun 
try  roads  to  distract  the  attention  of  the  garrison  at 
Port  Hudson  by  an  attack  in  the  rear,  signified 
their  arrival  at  their  designated  position  by  opening 
fire. 

At  half-past  nine  o'clock  at  night  a  red  light  from 
the  flag-ship  signaled  the  ships  and  gun-boats  to 
weigh  anchor.  The  Hartford  led,  towing  the  Al 
batross  lashed  on  her  starboard  side.  The  Rich 
mond,  following,  towed  the  Grenesee.  The  Monon- 
gahela  towed  the  Kineo.  The  Mississippi  and  the 


OF  PORT   HUDSON.  15 

Sachem  followed.  The  mortar-boats  were  anchored 
just  above  Prophet's  Island,  under  shelter  of  the 
eastern  banks,  but  from  which  point  they  could  easily 
pitch  their  shells  into  the  works  of  the  foe. 

Signal-lights  were  flashing  along  the  rebel  bat 
teries,  showing  that  they  Avere  awake  to  the  move 
ments  of  the  Union  squadron.  Soon  the  gleam  of  a 
fire  kindled  by  the  rebels  was  seen,  which  blazed 
higher  and  more  brilliant,  till  its  flashes  illumined 
the  whole  river  opposite  the  batteries  with  the  light 
of  day.  This  immense  bonfire  was  directly  in  front 
of  the  most  formidable  of  the  fortifications,  and  every 
vessel  ascending  the  stream  would  be  compelled  to 
pass  in  the  full  blaze  of  its  light,  exposed  to  the  con 
centrated  fire  of  the  heaviest  ordnance.  Still  it  was 
hoped,  notwithstanding  the  desperate  nature  of  the 
enterprise,  that  a  few  at  least  of  the  vessels  of  the 
squadron  would  be  able  to  eifect  a  passage. 

Silently  in  the  darkness  the  boats  steamed  along, 
until  a  rebel  field-piece,  buried  in  the  foliage  of  the 
shore,  opened  fire  upon  the  Hartford.  The  chal 
lenge  thus  given  was  promptly  accepted,  and  a 
broadside  volley  was  returned  upon  the  unseen  foe. 
The  rebel  batteries,  protected  by  strong  redoubts, 
extended,  as  we  have  mentioned,  with  small  inter 
vening  spaces,  a  distance  of  nearly  four  miles,  often 
rising  in  tier  above  tier  on  the  ascending  bluff. 
Battery  after  battery  immediately  opened  its  fire  ; 
the  hillsides  seemed  peopled  with  demons  hurling 
their  thunder-bolts,  while  the  earth  trembled  beneath 
the  incessant  and  terrific  explosions.  And  now  the 


16  SIEGE   AND   CAPTURE 

mortar-boats  uttered  their  awful  roar,  adding  to  the 
inconceivable  sublimity  of  the  scene.  An  eye-wit 
ness  thus  describes  the  appearance  of  the  mammoth 
shells  rising  and  descending  in  their  majestic  curve : 

"  Never  shall  I  forget  the  sight  that  then  met  my 
astonished  vision.  Shooting  upward,  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees,  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning, 
small  globes  of  golden  flame  were  seen  sailing  through 
the  pure  ether — not  a  steady,  unfading  flame,  but 
corruscating  like  the  fitful  gleam  of  a  fire -fly,  now  vis 
ible  and  anon  invisible.  Like  a  flying  star  of  the 
sixth  magnitude,  the  terrible  missile,  a  13-inch  shell, 
neared  its  zenith,  up  and  still  up,  higher  and  higher. 
Its  flight  now  becomes  much  slower,  till,  on  reaching 
its  utmost  altitude,  its  centrifugal  force  becoming 
counteracted  by  the  earth's  attraction,  it  describes  a 
parabolic  curve,  and  down,  down  it  comes,  bursting, 
it  may  be,  ere  it  reaches  terra  firma,  but  probably 
alighting  in  the  rebel  works  ere  it  explodes,  where  it 
scatters  death  and  destruction  around." 

The  air  was  breathing  gently  from  the  east,  and 
dense,  volumes  of  billowy  smoke  hung  over  the 
river,  drifting  slowly  across  in  clouds  which  the  eye 
could  not  .penetrate,  and  adding  greatly  to  the  gloom 
and  sublimity  of  the  scene.  It  strains  a  ship  too 
much  to  fire  all  the  guns  simultaneously.  The  broad 
sides  were  consequently  discharged  by  commencing 
with  the  forward  gun,  and  firing  each  one  in  its  turn 
in  the  most  rapid  manner  possible — as  fast  as  the 
ticking  of  a  clock.  The  effect  of  this  bombardment, 
from  ship  and  shore,  as  described  by  all  who  witnessed 


OF   PORT    HUDSON.  17 

it,  was  grand  and  terrific  in  the  extreme.  From  the 
innumerable  batteries,  very  skillfully  manned,  shot 
and  shell  fell  upon  the  ships  like  hail.  Piercing  the 
awful  roar,  which  filled  the  air  as  with  the  voice  of 
ten  thousand  thunders,  was  heard  the  demoniac 
shrieks  of  the  shells,  as  if  all  the  demons  of  the  pit 
had  broken  loose,  and  were  reveling  in  hideous  rage 
through  the  darkness  and  the  storm. 

In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  terror,  conflagration, 
and  death,  as  the  ships  were  struggling  through  the 
fire  against  the  swift  current  of  the  Mississippi,  there 
was  heard  from  the  deck  of  the  Richmond,  coming 
up  from  the  dark,  rushing  stream,  the  cry  of  a 
drowning  man,  "  Help  !  oh,  help  !  "  The  unhappy 
sufferer  had  evidently  fallen  from  the  Hartford, 
which  was  in  advance.  In  such  an  hour  there  could 
not  be  even  an  attempt  made  to  rescue  him.  Again 
and  again  the  agonizing  cry  pierced  the  air,  the  voice 
growing  fainter  and  fainter  as  the  victim  floated  away 
in  the  distance,  until  he  sank  beneath  the  turbid 
waves. 

The  whole  arena  of  action,  on  the  land  and  on  the 
water,  was  soon  enveloped  in  a  sulphurous  canopy  of 
smoke,  pierced  incessantly  by  the  vivid  flashes  of  the 
guns.  The  vessels  could  no  longer  discern  each 
other  or  the  hostile  batteries  on  the  shore.  It  be 
came  very  difficult  to  know  how  to  steer ;  and  as  in 
the  inpenetrable  gloom  the  only  object  at  which  they 
could  aim  was  the  flash  of  the  guns,  the  danger  be 
came  imminent  that  they  might  fire  into  each  other. 
This  gave  the  rebels  great  advantage  ;  for  with  their 

2 


18  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

stationary  guns  trained  upon  the  river,  though  they 
fired  into  dense  darkness,  they  could  hardly  fire 
amiss.  Occasionally  a  gust  of  wind  would  sweep 
away  the  smoke,  slightly  revealing  the  scene  in  the 
light  of  the  great  bonfire  on  the  bluff.  Again  the 
black,  stifling  canopy  would  settle  down,  and  all  was 
Egyptian  darkness. 

At  one  time,  just  as  the  Richmond  was  prepared 
to  pour  a  deadly  fire  into  a  supposed  battery,  whose 
flash  the  gunners  had  just  perceived,  Lieutenant 
Terry  shouted  out,  "  Hold  on,  you  are  firing  into  the 
Hartford!""  Another  quarter  of  a  minute  would 
have  discharged  a  deadly  broadside  into  the  bosoms 
of  our  friends.  Just  then,  another  flash  of  the  Hart 
ford's  guns  revealed  the  spars  and  rigging  of  the 
majestic  ship  just  alongside  of  the  Richmond.  The 
demons  of  war  were  now  flapping  their  wings  on  the 
blast,  and  death  and  misery  held  high  carnival.  The 
surgeons  were  busy  in  their  humane  yet  awful  tasks. 
The  decks  were  becoming  slippery  with  blood.  The 
shrill  cry  of  the  wounded  often  pierced  the  thunder 
of  the  conflict.  The  gloom,  the  smoke,  the  suffoca 
tion,  the  deafening  roar,  the  bewilderment  of  the 
ships  struggling  through  the  darkness,  presented  a 
scene  which  war's  panorama  has  perhaps  never  be 
fore  unrolled. 

Still  the  ships  kept  up  an  incessant  fire  from  their 
starboard  guns,  and  from  brass  howitzers  stationed 
in  the  tops,  whenever  the  lifting  of  the  smoke  would 
give  them  any  chance  to  strike  the  foe.  The  ships 
were  now  all  engaged.  Many  of  them  were  within 


OF   PORT   HUDSON.  19 

sixty  feet  of  the  batteries.  The  Monongaliela  had 
two  immense  rifled  Parrott  guns,  each  of  which  threw 
shot  weighing  two  hundred  pounds.  The  thunder  of 
these  guns  and  of  the  mammoth  mortars  rose  sub 
limely  above  the  general  roar  of  the  cannonade.  A 
shell  from  a  rebel  battery  entered  the  forward  star 
board  port  of  the  Richmond,  and  burst  with  a  terrific 
explosion  directly  under  the  gun.  One  fragment 
splintered  the  gun-carriage.  Another  made  a  deep 
indentation  in  the  gun  itself.  Two  other  fragments 
struck  the  unfortunate  boatswain's  mate,  cutting 
off  both  legs  at  the  knee  and  one  arm  at  the  elbow. 
He  soon  died,  with  his  last  breath  saying,  "  Do  n't 
give  up  the  ship,  lads ! "  The  whole  ship  reeled 
under  the  concussion  as  if  tossed  by  an  earthquake. 
The  river  at  Port  Hudson,  as  we  have  mentioned, 
makes  a  majestic  curve.  Rebel  cannon  were  planted 
along  the  concave  brow  of  the  crescent-shaped  bluffs 
of  the  eastern  shore,  while  beneath  the  bluff,  near  the 
water's  edge,  there  was  another  series  of  what  were 
called  water-batteries  lining  the  bank.  As  the  ships 
entered  this  curve,  following  the  channel  which  swept 
close  to  the  eastern  shore,  they  Avere,  one  after  the 
other,  exposed  to  the  most  terrible  enfilading  fire 
from  all  the  batteries  following  the  line  of  the  curve. 
This  was  the  most  desperate  point  of  the  conflict ;  for 
here  it  was  almost  literally  fighting  muzzle  to  muzzle. 
The  rebels  discharged  an  incessant  cross-fire  of  grape 
and  canister,  to  which  the  heroic  squadron  replied 
with  double-shotted  guns.  Never  did  ships  pass  a 
more  fiery  ordeal. 


20  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

Lieutenant-Commander  Cummings,  the  executive 
officer  of  the  Richmond,  was  standing  with  his  speak 
ing-trumpet  in  his  hand  cheering  the  men,  with  Cap 
tain  Alden  by  his  side,  when  there  was  a  simultane 
ous  flash  and  roar,  and  a  storm  of  shot  came  crash 
ing  through  the  bulwarks  from  a  rebel  battery,  which 
they  could  almost  touch  with  their  ramrods.  Both 
of  the  officers  fell  as  if  struck  by  lightning.  The 
Captain  was  simply  knocked  down  by  the  windage, 
and  escaped  unharmed.  The  speaking-trumpet  in 
Commander  Cummings'  hand  was  battered  flat,  and 
his  left  leg  was  torn  off  just  below  the  knee. 

As  he  fell  heavily  upon  the  deck,  in  his  gushing 
blood,  he  exclaimed : 

"  Put  a  tourniquet  on  my  leg,  boys.  Send  my 
letters  to  my  wife.  Tell  her  that  I  fell  in  doing  my 
duty  ! " 

As  they  took  him  below,  and  into  the  surgeon's 
room,  already  filled  with  the  wounded,  he  looked  up 
on  the  unfortunate  group  and  said  : 

"  If  there  are  any  here  hurt  worse  than  I  am,  let 
them  be  attended  to  first." 

His  shattered  limb  was  immediately  amputated. 
Soon  after,  as  he  lay  upon  his  couch,  exhausted  by 
the  operation  and  faint  from  the  loss  of  blood,  he 
heard  the  noise  of  the  escape  of  steam  as  a  rebel  shot 
penetrated  the  boiler.  Inquiring  the  cause,  and 
learning  that  the  ship  had  become  disabled,  he  ex 
claimed,  with  fervor, 

"  I  would  willingly  give  my  other  leg  if  we  could 
but  pass  those  batteries  !  " 


OF   PORT   HUDSON.  21 

A  few  days  after,  this  Christian  hero  died  of  his 
wound.  He  adds  another  to  the  honored  list  of  those 
martyrs  who  have  laid  down  their  lives  to  rescue  our 
beloved  country  from  the  most  wicked  rebellion  which 
ever  disgraced  the  history  of  this  world.  A  reporter 
of  one  of  the  New  York  papers,  describing  the  scene 
just  before  the  battle,  writes : 

"  In  conversation  with  Mr.  Cummings,  I  asked  him 
whose  post  in  time  of  action  was  on  the  bridge — a 
narrow  platform  even  with  the  tops  of  the  rail  across 
the  ship  from  side  to  side — where  the  best  view  can 
be  had  of  the  whole  ship  fore  and  aft.  With  a  quiet 
smile,  he  only  pointed  to  his  own  breast.  You  may 
well  believe  that  I  often  recalled  this  with  great  in 
terest.  There  never  was  a  more  enthusiastic,  chiv 
alrous,  and  high-minded  corps  of  officers  than  those 
on  board  the  Richmond.  They  had  toned  up  the 
whole  ship's  crew  to  their  own  valor." 

The  chaplain,  Rev.  Dr.  Bacon,  of  New  Orleans, 
was  aiding  with  the  group  around  the  gun  when 
Lieut.  Cummings  fell;  but  he  escaped  unharmed. 
Like  most  of  our  chaplains  during  the  war,  he  avoided 
none  of  the  peril  of  battle.  No  officer  on  board  was 
more  heroic  than  he  in  facing  every  danger,  as  he 
animated  the  men  to  duty.  Just  above  the  batteries 
were  several  rebel  gun-boats.  They  did  not  venture 
into  the  melee,  but  anxiously  watched  the  fight,  until, 
apprehensive  that  some  of  our  ships  might  pass,  they 
put  on  all  steam  and  ran  up  the  river  as  fast  as  their 
web-feet  would  carry  them.  But  now  denser  and 
blacker  grew  the  dark  billows  of  smoke.  It  seemed 


22  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

impossible,  if  the  steamers  moved,  to  avoid  running 
into  each  other  or  upon  the  shore.  An  officer  of 
each  ship  placed  himself  at  the  prow,  striving  to  pen 
etrate  the  gloom.  A  line  of  men  passed  from  him  to 
the  stern,  along  whom,  even  through  the  thunders  of 
the  battle,  directions  could  be  transmitted  to  the 
helmsman.  Should  any  of  the  ships  touch  the  ground 
beneath  the  fire  of  such  batteries  their  destruction 
would  be  almost  sure. 

It  was  a  little  after  eleven  o'clock  at  night  when  the 
first  shot  had  been  fired.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  the 
unequal  conflict  had  raged.  The  flag-ship  H'irtford 
and  the  Albatross  succeeded  in  forcing  their  way 
above  the  batteries,  and  in  thus  gaining  the  all-im 
portant  object  of  their  enterprise.  The  Richmond, 
following,  had  just  passed  the  principal  batteries  when 
a  shot  penetrated  her  steam-chest,  so  effectually  dis 
abling  her  for  the  hour  that  she  dropped,  almost  help 
less,  down  the  stream.  The  Gf-enesee,  which  was 
alongside,  unable  to  stem  the  rapid  current  of  the 
river,  with  the  massive  Richmond  in  tow,  bore  her 
back  to  Prophet's  Island.  Just  as  the  Richmond 
turned,  a  torpedo  exploded  under  her  stern,  throwing 
up  the  water  mast-head  high,  and  causing  the  gallant 
ship  to  quiver  in  every  timber. 

The  Monongahela  and  Kineo  came  next  in  line  of 
battle.  The  commander  of  the  Monongahela,  Cap 
tain  M'Kinstry,  was  struck  down  early  in  the  conflict. 
The  command  then  developed  on  a  gallant  young  offi 
cer,  Lieutenant  Thomas.  He  manfully  endeavored 
through  all  the  storm  of  battle  to  follow  the  flag-ship. 


OF    PORT   HUDSON.  23 

But  in  the  dense  smoke  the  pilot  lost  the  channel. 
The  ship  grounded  directly  under  the  fire  of  one  of  the 
principal  rebel  batteries.  For  twenty-five  minutes 
she  remained  in  this  perilous  position,  swept  by  shot 
and  shell.  Finally,  through  the  efforts  of  her  consort, 
the  Kineo,  she  was- floated,  and  again  heroically  com 
menced  steaming  up  the  river.  But  her  enginery 
soon  became  so  disabled  under  the  relentless  fire, 
that  the  Monongahela  was  also  compelled  to  drop 
down  with  the  Kineo  to  the  position  of  the  mortar- 
fleet.  Her  loss  was  six  killed  and  twenty  wounded. 
In  obedience  to  the  order  of  Admiral  Farragut,  the 
magnificent  ship  Mississippi  brought  up  the  rear, 
with  the  gun-boat  Sachem  as  her  ally,  bound  to  her 
larboard  side.  She  had  reached  the  point  directly 
opposite  the  town,  and  her  officers  were  congratulat 
ing  themselves  that  they  had  surmounted  the  greatest 
dangers,  and  that  they  would  soon  be  above  the  bat 
teries,  when  the  ship,  which  had  just  then  been  put 
under  rapid  headway,  grounded  on  the  west  bank  of 
the  river.  It  was  an  awful  moment ;  for  the  guns  of 
countless  batteries  were  immediately  concentrated 
upon  her.  Captain  Smith,  while  with  his  efficient 
engineer  Rutherford  he  made  the  most  strenuous  ex 
ertions  to  get  the  ship  afloat,  ordered  his  gunners  to 
keep  up  their  fire  with  the  utmost  possible  rapidity. 
In  the  short  space  of  thirty-five  minutes  they  fired 
two  hundred  and  fifty  shots.  The  principal  battery 
of  the  foe  was  within  five  hundred  yards  of  the  crip 
pled  ship,  and  the  majestic  fabric  was  soon  riddled 
through  and  through  by  the  storm  with  which  she  was 


24  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

so  pitilessly  pelted.  The  dead  and  the  wounded 
strewed  the  decks,  and  it  was  soon  evident  that  the 
ship  could  not  be  saved. 

Captain  Smith  prepared  to  destroy  the  ship,  that 
it  might  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  rebels,  and  to 
save  the  crew.  Captain  Caldwell,  of  the  iron-clad 
Essex,  hastened  to  his  rescue.  Under  as  murderous 
a  fire  as  mortals  were  ever  exposed  to,  the  sick  and 
wounded  were  conveyed  on  board  the  ram.  Com 
bustibles  were  placed  in  the  fore  and  after  part  of  the 
ship,  to  which  the  torch  was  to  be  applied  so  soon  as 
the  crew  had  all  escaped  to  the  western  shore.  By 
some  misunderstanding,  she  was  fired  forward  before 
the  order  was  given.  This  caused  a  panic,  as  there 
were  but  three  small  boats  by  which  they  could  es 
cape.  Some  plunged  into  the  river  and  were 
drowned.  It  is  related,  in  evidence  of  the  coolness 
of  Captain  Smith,  that  in  the  midst  of  this  awful 
scene,  while  lighting  his  cigar  with  steel  and  flint,  he 
remarked  to  Lieutenant  Dewy  : 

"It  is  not  likely  that  we  shall  escape,  and  we  must 
make  every  preparation  to  secure  the  destruction  of 
the  ship." 

After  spiking  nearly  every  gun  with  his  own 
hands,  and  seeing  that  the  survivors  of  his  crew  were 
fairly  clear  of  the  wreck,  Captain  Smith,  accompanied 
by  Lieutenant  Dewy,  Ensign  Backelder,  and  En 
gineer  Tower,  sadly  took  their  leave,  abandoning  the 
proud  fabric  to  the  flames.  Scarcely  had  they  left, 
when  two  shells  came  crashing  through  the  sides  of 
the  Mississippi,  overturning,  scattering,  and  enkind- 


OF   PORT   HUDSON.  25 

ling  into  flames  some  casks  of  turpentine.  The  ship 
was  almost  instantly  enveloped  in  billows  of  fire.  A 
yell  of  exultation  rose  from  the  rebels  as  they  beheld 
the  bursting  forth  of  the  flames.  The  ship,  light 
ened  by  the  removal  of  three  hundred  men,  and  by 
the  consuming  power  of  the  fire,  floated  from  the 
sand-bar  and  commenced  floating,  bow  on,  down  the 
river. 

The  scene  presented  was  indeed  magnificent.  The 
whole  fabric  Avas  enveloped  in  flame.  Wreathing 
serpents  of  fire  twined  around  the  masts  and  ran  up 
the  shrouds.  Drifting  rapidly  downward  on  the 
rapid  current,  the  meteor,  like  a  volcanic  mountain 
in  eruption,  descended  as  regularly  along  the  west 
ern  banks  of  the  stream  as  if  steered  by  the  most  ac 
complished  helmsman.  As  the  ship  turned  round  in 
floating  off,  the  guns  of  her  port  battery,  which  had 
not  been  discharged,  faced  the  foe.  As  the  fire 
reached  them,  the  noble  frigate,  with  the  stars  and 
stripes  still  floating  at  her  peak,  opened  a  new  bom 
bardment  of  the  rebel  batteries.  The  shells  began 
to  explode,  scattering  through  the  air  in  all  direc 
tions.  The  flaming  vision  arrested  every  eye  on  the 
land  and  on  the  ships,  until  the  floating  mountain  of 
fire  drifted  down  and  disappeared  behind  Prophet's 
Island.  And  now  came  the  explosion  of  the  maga 
zine.  There  was  a  vivid  flash,  shooting  upward  to 
the  sky  in  the  form  of  an  inverted  cone.  For  a 
moment  the  whole  horizon  seemed  ablaze  with  fiery 
missiles.  Then  came  booming  over  the  waves  a  peal 
of  heaviest  thunder.  The  very  hills  shook  be- 


26  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

neath  the  awful  explosion.  This  was  the  dying  cry 
of  the  Mississippi,  as  she  sank  to  her  burial  beneath 
the  waves  of  the  river  from  which  she  received  her 
name. 

Captain  Caldwell  of  the  Essex,  who,  as  soon  as  he 
saw  the  Mississippi  to  be  on  fire,  gallantly  steamed 
to  her  aid,  directly  under  the  concentrated  fire  of 
the  batteries,  succeeded  in  picking  up  many  who  were 
struggling  in  the  waves,  and  in  rescuing  others  who 
had  escaped  to  the  shore.  There  were  about  three 
hundred  men  on  board  the  Mississippi.  Of  these, 
sixty-five  officers  and  men  were  either  killed,  wound 
ed,  or  taken  prisoners.  Seventy,  who  escaped  to  the 
shore,  wandered  for  many  miles  down  the  western 
bank  of  the  stream,  in  constant  danger  of  being  taken 
captive,  wading  the  bayous,  and  encountering  fear 
ful  hardships,  until  they  finally  reached  the  ships  be 
low.  Two  ships,  the  Hartfvrd  and  the  Albatross, 
succeeded  in  running  the  gauntlet.  We  have  not 
space  here  to  recount  their  subsequent  exploits. 

Two  months  now  passed  away,  during  which  vig 
orous  preparations  were  made  in  New  Orleans  to  at 
tack  and  capture  Port  Hudson,  so  that  efficient  aid 
might  be  contributed  to  General  Grant,  who  was  at 
that  time  besieging  Vicksburg.  In  the  mean  time, 
the  rebels  had  been  very  busy,  and  the  batteries  at 
Port  Hudson  were  surrounded,  on  the  land  side,  by 
as  powerful  a  series  of  ramparts  and  redoubts  as 
modern  science  could  construct.  A  large  patriot 
fleet  and  army  were  assembled  at  Baton  Rouge. 
The  rebel  works  were  soon  invested.  The  lines  of 


OF   PORT   HUDSON.  27 

the  Union  army  extended  in  a  semicircle  from 
Thompson's  Bayou,  five  miles  above  Port  Hudson, 
to  Springfield's  Landing,  about  the  same  distance  be 
low.  While  this  movement  of  the  land  forces  was 
taking  place,  the  fleet  was  attracting  the  attention  of 
the  rebels  by  an  incessant  bombardment.  The  Hart 
ford  and  Albatross,  which  had  run  the  blockade,  at 
tacked  the  upper  batteries  ;  while  the  Richmond, 
Mononyahela,  Grenesee,  and  Essex  opened  their  hot 
test  fire  upon  the  batteries  below. 

General  Banks  was  in  command  of  the  land  force. 
The  extreme  right  was  commanded  by  General 
Weitzel,  the  center  by  Generals  Emory  and  Grover, 
the  left  by  General  T.  W.  Sherman.  The  artillery 
brigade  was  under  the  command  of  General  Arnold. 
On  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  the  27th  of  May, 
1863,  the  great  battle  began.  Our  troops  were  to 
march  up  with  bare  bosoms  against  one  of  the  strong 
est  positions  in  the  world.  An  almost  impenetrable 
abatis  of  felled  trees  covered  the  ground  before  them. 
Sharp-shooters  occupied  every  available  point  to  pick 
off  the  officers.  The  ramparts  bristled  with  artillery, 
double-shotted  with  grape  and  canister.  Dense  lines 
of  rebels  of  desperate  valor  crouched  behind  the 
earth-works,  with  muskets  loaded  and  capped,  pre 
pared,  while  almost  safe  from  clanger  themselves,  to 
hurtle  such  a  storm  of  lead  into  the  faces  of  the  ad 
vancing  patriots  as  mortal  bravery  has  rarely  en 
countered. 

The  patriots  who  were  to  face  this  fiery  ordeal 
were  men  who  detested  war.  With  great  reluctance 


28  SIEGE    AND    CAPTURE 

they  had  but  recently  left  their  homes  of  peaceful 
industry.  They  loved  their  wives  and  their  children, 
and  scenes  of  destruction  and  carnage  were  abhor 
rent  to  all  their  feelings.  But  the  free  institutions, 
so  priceless,  which  their  fathers  had  bequeathed  to 
them,  were  endangered,  and  for  the  integrity  of  their 
country  they  were  nobly  willing  to  lay  down  their 
lives. 

The  line  of  battle  was  formed  at  daybreak. 
Weitzel,  Grover,  Augur,  Sherman — men  already 
renowned  in  this  great  strife  for  popular  rights — 
marshaled  their  enthusiastic  men  in  the  dim  twilight 
fop  the  day  of  blood.  The  signal  for  the  onset  was 
given,  and  the  whole  majestic  line  moved  forward. 
At  the  same  signal,  every  gun  in  the  fleet  which  could 
be  brought  to  bear  upon  the  foe  opened  its  thunders. 
Every  rebel  battery  and  musket  responded,  and  for 
a  circuit  of  leagues  the  deafening  roar  of  battle  filled 
the  air.  Hour  after  hour  there  was  no  intermission. 
Both  parties  fought  with  the  utmost  possible  determ 
ination.  Through  mutilation  and  death,  and  over 
every  obstacle,  the  patriots  pressed  resolutely  for 
ward.  The  rebels  contested  every  inch.  Guns  were 
clubbed.  Bayonets  crossed  each  other.  Hand 
clenched  hand  and  breast  pressed  breast  in  deadly 
strife.  The  patriots  drove  the  rebels  from  several 
portions  of  their  works,  seized  their  guns,  and  turned 
them  upon  the  retiring  foe.  These  young  men,  fresh 
from  their  homes  and  from  all  the  ennobling  pursuits 
of  industry,  moved  steadily  forward  against  and 
clambered  over  these  bristling  ramparts,  under  the 


OP   PORT    HUDSON.  29 

most  murderous  fire  of  shot,  shell,  grape,  canister, 
and  musketry,  with  all  the  firmness  of  veterans. 

The  Second  Regiment  of  Louisiana  Native  Guards, 
under  Colonel  Nelson,  made  one  of  the  most  heroic 
charges  of  the  day.  They  went  in  nine  hundred 
strong.  When  they  came  out,  but  six  hundred 
answered  to  the  roll-call.  They  poured  one  charge 
of  bullets  in  upon  the  foe,  and  then,  through  a  con 
centric  fire  of  musketry  and  batteries,  rushed  forward 
with  fixed  bayonets.  The  Sixth  Michigan  and  the 
One  Hundred  and  Twenty-eighth  New  York  were 
in  the  same  charge.  General  Sherman  led  in  per 
son,  arid  was  carried  from  the  field  severely  wounded. 
General  Neal  Dow,  of  Maine,  was  also  wounded. 
Each  of  these  two  regiments  lost  nearly  one  half  of 
its  eifective  men.  The  patriots,  in  this  heroic  attack 
upon  the  right,  gained  the  ground  they  fought  for. 
But  they  could  not  hold  it,  for  it  was  commanded  by 
other  and  more  formidable  batteries  in  their  rear. 

In  the  center,  the  onset  by  Augur  and  Grover  was 
no  less  impetuous.  The  rebels  were  driven  foot  by 
foot  from  their  rifle-pits  and  outer  intrenchments  into 
their  main  works,  from  which  they  never  emerged 
again  until  they  marched  out  prisoners  of  war.  The 
rebels  had  placed  every  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the 
Union  advance  which  art  could  suggest,  and  all  the 
most  terrible  engines  of  war  exhausted  their  energies 
in  the  work  of  slaughter.  And  yet  these  young 
patriots,  all  inexperienced  in  war's  horrible  science, 
who  had  enlisted  but  for  nine  months,  carried  line 
after  line  of  intrenchments,  with  precision  of  move- 


30  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

ment  not  surpassed  by  the  veteran  soldiers  of  Water 
loo  or  Sebastopol. 

Our  loss  amounted  to  about  a  thousand  men  in 
killed,  wounded,  and  missing.  But  we  gained  very 
important  advantages.  Several  guns  were  captured, 
the  rebels  were  driven  back,  and  positions  of  great 
military  importance  were  secured  for  future  opera 
tions.  The  efforts  of  the  fleet  were  equally  success 
ful.  The  accuracy  of  the  firing  was  very  remark 
able.  Five  of  the  heaviest  guns  of  the  rebels  were 
dismounted. 

The  First  Regiment  of  Louisiana  engineers  ren 
dered  efficient  service  in  this  action.  It  was  com 
posed  exclusively  of  colored  men.  General  Banks, 
speaking  of  them  in  his  report,  says  : 

"  In  many  respects  their  conduct  was  heroic.  No 
troops  could  be  more  determined  or  more  daring. 
They  made,  during  the  day,  three  charges  upon  the 
batteries  of  the  enemy,  suffering  very  heavy  losses, 
and  holding  their  position  at  nightfall  with  the  other 
troops  on  the  right  of  our  line.  Whatever  doubt 
may  have  existed  heretofore  as  to  the  efficiency  of 
organizations  of  this  character,  the  history  of  this  day  • 
proves  conclusively  to  those  who  were  in  condition 
to  observe  the  conduct  of  these  regiments,  that  the 
Government  will  find  in  this  class  of  troops  effective 
supporters  and  defenders." 

A  fortnight  now  passed  away  of  cannonading,  of 
skirmishing,  of  incessant  action  of  sharp-shooters,  of 
throwing  up  intrenchments,  and  digging  parallels. 
On  the  14th  of  June  all  things  were  ready  for 


OF   PORT   HUDSON.  31 

another  grand  assault.  The  point  of  attack  now 
chosen  was  the  extreme  northeasterly  corner  of  the 
rebel  works.  Weitzel  and  Kimball  and  Morgan  and 
Paine  and  Grover  had  massed  their  forces  here  for 
another  great  struggle.  For  several  days  a  heavy 
fire  of  artillery  had  been  kept  up  at  this  point  upon 
the  hostile  batteries,  and  several  of  their  most  impor 
tant  guns  had  been  dismounted.  We  had  been 
steadily  drawing  nearer  to  their  works,  picking  off 
their  gunners  with  our  sharp-shooters  wherever  we 
could  get  sight  of  a  head  or  a  hand,  and  now  our 
batteries  were  in  many  places  within  three  hundred 
yards  of  those  of  the  foe. 

At  ten  o'clock  at  night  of  Saturday,  June  13th, 
General  Augur,  who  had  just  returned  from  the  head 
quarters  of  General  Banks,  gave  orders  that  all  were 
to  be  in  readiness  for  the  grand  assault  at  three  o'clock 
the  next  morning,  Sunday.  Eager  as  all  the  soldiers 
were  for  the  movement,  and  sanguine  as  they  were 
of  success,  there  probably  was  not  a  Christian  man 
in  the  army  who  did  not  regret  that  the  assault  was 
to  be  made  on  the  Sabbath  day.  Rarely  during  the 
war  had  a  party  •  making  an  offensive  movement  on 
Sunday  been  successful.  The  fact  had  attracted  the 
attention  even  of  the  most  thoughtless  men. 

The  day  had  not  dawned  when  the  brigades  were 
moving  by  routes  which  had  been  carefully  marked 
out  to  them  for  the  impetuous  assault.  During 
several  previous  days  the  engineers  had  been  em 
ployed  constructing  a  covered  way,  through  which  the 
assaulting  column  could  advance  to  within  about  three 


32  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

hundred  yards  of  the  enemy's  position.  Through 
this  they  marched  in  single  file  to  the  point  where 
they  spread  out  in  the  line  of  battle.  The  advance 
was  then  over  an  old  cotton-field.  But  the  rebels 
had  filled  it  with  lines  of  ditches,  which  were  covered 
and  concealed  by  an  abatis  of  fallen  trees  and  vines. 
The  rifle-pits  of  the  foe  commanded  every  inch.  It 
was  impossible  for  horses  to  move  across  this  plain, 
and  infantry  could  by  no  possibility  keep  in  regular 
order  of  battle.  The  entire  line  of  rebel  works  ex 
tended  eight  miles  by  land  and  three  or  four  by 
water.  Along  this  whole  circuit  the  assault  was  to 
be  made  simultaneously  by  the  army  and  navy,  and 
with  the  utmost  determination,  that  there  might  be  no 
concentration  of  rebel  troops  to  repel  the  main  as 
sault,  which  was  to  be  made  upon  the  northeast  angle 
of  the  rebel  lines.  Elsewhere  the  attack  was  merely 
to  distract  attention,  and  to  keep  the  foe  engaged. 

Before  the  dawn  the  most  terrific  cannonading 
commenced  along  the  whole  line,  afloat  and  ashore. 
Every  gun  within  the  rebel  intrenchments  and  from 
the  patriot  opposing  batteries  was  fired  with  the  ut 
most  rapidity.  Not  a  man  on  those  grounds  had 
ever  before  heard  thunders  of  war  so  awful.  The 
air  was  filled  with  shrieking,  bursting  shells.  The 
hills  shook  beneath  the  tremendous  explosions.  Dense 
clouds  of  smoke,  which  hung  heavily  over  the  whole 
expanse,  gave  the  place  the  appearance  of  a  vast  vol 
cano  in  violent  eruption. 

The  grand  assaulting  column  was  under  the  imme 
diate  command  of  General  Paine.  It  was  led  by  the 


OP    PORT   HUDSON.  33 

Eighth  New  Hampshire  and  the  Fourth  Wisconsin 
regiments.  Then  came  the  Fourth  Massachusetts 
and  the  One  Hundred  and  Tenth  New  York.  Then 
came  the  Third  Brigade,  under  Colonel  Gooding, 
consisting  of  the  Thirty-first,  Thirty-eighth,  and  Fif 
ty-third  Massachusetts,  and  the  One  Hundred  and 
Fifty-sixth  and  One  hundred  and  Seventy-fifth  New 
York.  The  Second  Brigade  followed,  under  Colonel 
A.  Fearing.  Its  serried  ranks  were  composed  of  the 
One  Hundred  and  Thirty-third  and  the  One  Hun 
dred  and  Seventy-third  New  York.  The  remainder 
of  this  brigade  were  detailed  as  skirmishers.  Then 
came  the  First  Brigade,  under  Colonel  Ferris.  It 
was  composed  of  the  Twenty-eighth  Connecticut,  the 
Fourth  Massachusetts,  and  four  companies  of  the 
One  Hundred  and  Tenth  New  York.  The  necessary 
number  of  pioneers  and  Nims'  Massachusetts  Bat 
tery  were  added. 

Such  was  the  immense  battering-ram  which  mili 
tary  science  had  devised  and  constructed  to  break 
through  the  rebel  intrcnchments.  While  the  storm  of 
war  was  beating  with  the  utmost  fierceness  along  a 
circuit  twelve  miles  in  extent,  this  ponderous  force 
Avas  to  be  hurled  headlong,  with  all  conceivable  impet 
uosity,  upon  a  single  point.  Success  seemed  certain. 
The  battle  cannot  be  described.  It  was  a  delirious 
scene  of  terror,  tumult,  and  blood.  The  following 
words  from  one  who  was  a  participant  in  the 
scene,  may  give  a  faint  idea  of  its  horrors  : 

"  The  moment  we  turned  into  the  road,  shot, 
shell,  grape,  and  canister  fell  like  hail  around  us. 


34  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

On  we  went.  A  little  higher,  a  new  gun  opened 
upon  us.  Still  farther,  they  had  a  cross-fire — oh, 
such  a  terrible  one  !  But  on  we  went,  bending,  as 
with  sickening  shrieks,  the  grape  and  canister  swept 
over  us.  I  had  no  thought,  after  a  short  prayer, 
but  for  my  flag.  The  color-bearer  fell,  but  the  flag 
did  not.  Half  the  guard  fell,  but  the  flag  was  there. 
When  about  three  hundred  yards  from  the  works  I 
was  struck.  The  pain  was  so  intense  that  I  could 
not  go  on.  I  turned  to  my  second-lieutenant  and 
said,  '  Never  mind  me,  Jack ;  for  God's  sake,  jump 
to  the  colors.'  I  don't  recollect  anything  more  until 
I  heard  Colonel  Benedict  say,  '  Up,  men,  and  for 
ward  !  "  I  looked  and  saw  the  rear  regiments  lying 
flat  to  escape  the  fire,  and  Colonel  Benedict  stand 
ing  there,  the  shot  striking  all  about  him,  and  he 
never  flinching.  It  was  grand  to  see. 

"  When  I  heard  him  speak  I  forgot  all  else,  and 
running  forward,  did  not  stop  till  at  the  very  front 
and  near  the  colors  again.  There,  as  did  all  the 
rest,  I  lay  down,  and  soon  learned  the  trouble. 
Within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  works  was  a 
ravine  parallel  with  them,  completely  impassable 
from  the  fallen  timber  in  it.  Of  course  we  could 
not  move  on.  To  stand  up  was  certain  death.  So 
was  retreat.  Naught  was  left  but  to  lie  down,  with 
such  scanty  cover  as  we  could  get.  We  did  lie 
down  in  that  hot,  scorching  sun.  I  fortunately  got 
behind  two  small  logs,  which  protected  me  on  two 
sides,  and  lay  there,  scarcely  daring  to  turn,  for  four 
hours,  till  my  brain  reeled  and  surged,  and  I 


OF   PORT   HUDSON.  35 

thought  that  I  should  go  mad.  Death  would  have 
been  preferable  to  a  continuance  of  such  torture. 
Lots  of  poor  fellows  were  shot  as  they  were  lying 
down,  and  to  lie  there  and  hear  them  groan  and  cry 
was  awful.  Just  on  the  other  side  of  the  log  lay  the 
gallant  Colonel  Bryan,  with  both  legs  broken  by  shot. 
He  talked  of  home,  but  bore  it  like  a  patriot.  Near 
him  was  one  of  my  own  brave  boys,  with  five  balls  in 
him.  The  Colonel  got  out  of  pain  sooner  than 
some,  for  he  died  after  two  hours  of  intense  agony. 
Bullets  just  grazed  me  as  they  passed  over.  One 
entered  the  ground  within  an  inch  of  my  right  eye. 
I  have  been  in  many  battles,  but  I  never  saw,  and 
never  wish  to  see,  such  a  fire  as  that  poured  on  us 
on  June  14th.  It  was  not  merely  terrible.  It  was 

HORRIBLE." 

After  eight  hours  of  as  desperate  fighting  as  was 
ever  witnessed  on  earth,  our  charging  columns  were 
repulsed  with  great  slaughter.  About  eleven  o'clock 
A.  M.  the  fighting  ceased.  The  ground  in  front  of 
the  rebel  redoubts  was  covered  with  the  patriot  dead 
and  wounded.  But  till  night  darkened  the  scene, 
the  rebels  inhumanly  fired  upon  the  wounded  writh 
ing  in  their  blood ;  and  no  one  could  carry  to  them 
a  cup  of  cold  water  without  being  struck  by  the 
bullet  of  a  sharp-shooter.  General  Paine  was  severe 
ly  wounded  by  a  ball  which  broke  both  bones  of  his 
leg  just  below  the  knee.  He  could  not  be  brought 
from  the  field  until  after  dark.  Before  he  was 
struck  down  he  had  got  five  regiments  within  four 
rods  of  the  rebel  works,  and  some  of  his  skirmishers 


36  SIEGE  AND    CAPTURE 

had  actually  clambered  over  the  ramparts.  Not  being 
promptly  supported,  they  were  speedily  cut  down.  As 
General  Paine  lay  upon  his  back,  hour  after  hour,  in 
the  blistering  sun,  slightly  protected  between  two 
rows  of  the  cotton  field,  he  dared  not  attempt  to 
cover  his  face  with  his  cap,  for  if  the  rebels  saw  the 
slightest  movement  a  shower  of  balls  was  instantly 
poured  upon  him.  Our  whole  loss  during  the  day 
amounted  to  about  seven  hundred  and  fifty.  It  was 
a  sad  Sabbath  day's  work.  We  had  lost  much  and 
gained  nothing.  The  next  day,  under  a  flag  of  truce, 
the  dead  and  wounded  were  removed. 

Port  Hudson  was  in  reality  but  an  outpost  of 
Vicksburg,  where  General  Grant  was  day  by  day 
cutting  off  the  resources  of  the  rebels,  capturing 
their  outlying  batteries,  and  driving  them  within 
narrower  limits.  The  fall  of  either  of  these  great 
fortresses  rendered  the  other  no  longer  tenable.  On 
the  4th  of  July,  1863,  the  garrison  of  Vicksburg, 
more  than  thirty  thousand  strong,  were  compelled  to 
an  unconditional  surrender  to  General  Grant.  The 
joyful  tidings  were  speedily  conveyed  down  the  river 
to  the  patriot  army  surrounding  Port  Hudson.  Salvos 
of  artillery  and  shouts  from  thirty  thousand  patriot 
throats  conveyed  the  news  to  the  rebels  within  their 
strong  intrenchments.  General  Banks  was  just  pre 
paring  for  another  assault,  when  he  received  a  com 
munication  from  General  Gardner,  who  was  in 
command  of  the  rebel  works,  offering  to  surrender. 
General  Frank  Gardner  at  Port  Hudson,  and  Gen 
eral  Pemberton  at  Vicksburg,  were  both  Northern 


OF   PORT   HUDSON.  37* 

men.  They  had  both  gone  from  their  free  homes  in 
the  North  to  fight  against  that  banner  beneath  whose 
folds  they  were  born,  and  for  the  destruction  of  that 
Constitution  to  which  our  country  was  indebted  for 
all  its  prosperity  and  power. 

As  we  have  mentioned,  Port  Hudson  was  three 
hundred  miles  below  Vicksburg.  It  was  not  until 
the  morning  of  the  7th  that  General  Banks  received 
the  news  of  the  surrender.  General  Gardner  sent 
to  him  that  afternoon  a  communication  containing 
the  following  words : 

"  Having  received  information  from  your  troops 
that  Vicksburg  has  been  surrendered,  I  make  this 
communication  to  ask  you  to  give  me  the  official 
assurance  whether  this  is  true  or  not ;  and  if  true, 
I  ask  for  a  cessation  of  hostilities,  with  a  view  to 
the  consideration  of  terms  for  surrendering  this 
position." 

In  General  Banks'  brief  response,  dated  July  8th, 
he  stated :  "  I  have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  I  re 
ceived  yesterday  morning,  July  7th,  at  forty-five 
minutes  past  ten  o'clock,  by  the  gun-boat  General 
Price,  an  official  dispatch  from  Major-General  Ulys 
ses  S.  Grant,  United  States  Army,  whereof  the 
following  is  a  true  extract : 

"  '  The  garrison  of  Vicksburg  surrendered  this 
morning.  The  number  of  prisoners,  as  given  by 
the  officers,  is  twenty-seven  thousand,  field  artillery 
one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  pieces,  and  a  large 
number  of  siege-guns,  probably  not  less  than 
eighty.' 


£34937 


38  SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE 

"  I  regret  to  say  that,  under  present  circumstan 
ces,  I  cannot  consistently  with  duty  consent  to  a 
cessation  of  hostilities  for  the  purpose  you  indicate." 

Preparations  had  already  been  made  for  an  imme 
diate  assault.  Our  troops  were  flushed  with  the 
joyful  news  which  they  had  heard,  and  which  ren 
dered  the  downfall  of  Port  Hudson  certain.  They 
were  anxious  to  be  led  instantly  against  the  foe,  tha  t 
they  might  storm  and  take  his  batteries  before  the  fleet 
and  the  army  should  have  time  to  descend  from 
Vicksburg  and  deprive  them  of  a  portion  of  the 
honor.  The  rebels  knew  that  their  doom  was  sealed. 
They  could  not  escape,  and  they  could  not  resist  the 
forces  now  to  be  arrayed  against  them.  Nothing 
whatever  could  be  gained  by  prolonging  the  con 
test.  General  Gardner  accordingly  sent  back  a 
reply  couched  in  the  following  terms  : 

"  Having  defended  this  position  as  long  as  I  deem 
my  duty  requires,  I  am  willing  to  surrender  to  you, 
and  will  appoint  a  commission  of  three  officers  to 
meet  a  similar  commission  appointed  by  yourself,  at 
nine  o'clock  this  morning,  for  the  purpose  of  agree 
ing  upon  and  drawing  up  the  terms  of  surrender,  and 
for  that  purpose  I  ask  for  a  cessation  of  hostilities." 

The  commissioners  immediately  met,  and  the 
articles  of  capitulation  were  signed,  by  which  the 
fortress,  with  all  its  garrison,  its  stores,  and  its  arma 
ment,  was  surrendered  to  the  National  Government. 
At  the  earliest  dawn  of  the  next  morning,  Thurs 
day,  July  9th,  the  whole  patriot  camp  was  alive 
with  joyful  animation  to  witness  the  glorious  spec- 


,  OF    PORT   HUDSON.  39 

tacle  the  day  was  to  usher  in.  It  was  a  splendid 
morning.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  flutterings  of 
the  Star-Spangled  Banner,  and  from  scores  of  mar 
tial  bands  our  national  airs  were  pealed  forth  over 
the  water  and  the  land. 

General  Andrews,  chief  of  staff  of  General 
Banks,  at  seven  o'clock,  with  a  strong  column  of  the 
victors,  made  the  grand  entrance  into  the  rebel  forti 
fications.  The  rebel  army  were  drawn  up  in  an 
immense  line  upon  the  bluff,  with  their  backs  toward 
the  river.  Their  officers,  in  great  dejection,  were 
grouped  together  on  one  side.  The  patriot  army 
advanced  with  gleaming  weapons,  and  were  spread 
out  in  a  double  line  in  face  of  the  conquered  garri 
son.  The  patriot  officers  each  took  his  position  in 
front  of  his  men.  General  Gardner  then  advanced 
toward  General  Andrews  and  offered  him  his  sword. 
General  Andrews  declined  receiving  it,  courteously 
saying : 

"  In  appreciation  of  your  bravery,  however  mis 
directed,  you  are  at  liberty  to  retain  your  sword." 

General  Gardner  then  said,  "  General,  I  will  now 
formally  surrender  my  command  to  you,  and  for  that 
purpose  will  give  the  order  to  ground  arms." 

The  order  was  given.  Five  thousand  men 
bowed  their  heads,  deposited  their  arms  upon  the 
ground,  and  rose  prisoners  of  war.  Armed  guards 
were  then  placed  over  the  captives,  and  the 
glorious  old  flag  of  the  Union  rose  and  floated 
forth  like  a  meteor  from  the  flag-staff.  It  was 
unfurled  to  the  breeze  from  one  of  the  highest 


40          SIEGE   AND    CAPTURE    OF   PORT  HUDSON.         . 

bluffs  by  the  men  of  the  steamship  Richmond.  The 
flag  was  saluted  by  the  thunders  of  a  battery  whose 
reverberations  rolled  majestically  along  the  broad 
surface  of  the  Mississippi.  And  thus  this  great 
national  river,  upon  whose  banks  uncounted  millions 
are  yet  to  dwell,  and  which  treason  had  insanely 
attempted  to  wrest  from  the  nation,  was  restored  to 
its  rightful  owners.  Treason  has  done  its  utmost  to 
rob  the  nation  of  the  Mississippi,  and  has  failed. 
The  banner  of  rebellion  will  never  again  go  up  upon 
those  shores.  The  Stars  and  Stripes  will  never 
again  go  down. 

As  the  immediate  fruit  of  this  capture  there  fell 
into  our  hands  5500  prisoners,  20  pieces  of  heavy 
artillery,  5  complete  batteries  numbering  31  pieces 
of  field  artillery,  a  large  supply  of  balls  and  shells, 
44,800  pounds  of  cannon  powder,  5000  stand  of 
arms,  150,000  rounds  of  ammunition,  2  steamers, 
and  a  considerable  amount  of  commissary  stores. 

The  rebel  General  Gardner  admitted  that  even 
if  Vicksburg  had  not  fallen,  he  could  not  have 
held  out  three  days  longer.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  could  not  repel  another  assault.  He 
was  therefore  anxiously  watching  every  movement, 
intending,  so  soon  as  there  should  be  decisive  in 
dications  of  an  assault,  that  he  would  surrender. 
The  capture  of  Port  Hudson  consequently  redounds 
to  the  glory  of  the  heroic  army  which  surrounded 
it.  It  was  the  result  of  the  Herculean  exertions 
and  the  military  ability  of  the  fleet  and  the  army, 
under  Commodore  Farragut  and  General  Banks. 
To  them  belong  the  undivided  honor. 


of  £i  Joufi\ey. 


BY    A.    D.    MAYO. 

t  THINK  it  a  duty  to  enjoy  the  natural  crea 
tions  of  God.  This  sentence  may  read  strangely 
to  those  who  have  always  regarded  duty  and  pleasure 
as  terms  of  opposite  meaning.  But  I  hold  that  it  is 
a  positive  duty  to  admire  and  love  the  world  which 
our  Father  has  made.  Yet  how  can  I  do  this? 
says  one  who  has  lost  the  taste  for  such  enjoyments. 
I  reply,  such  loss  of  taste  is  a  sin.  The  love  of  na 
ture  is  implanted  originally  in  every  soul.  It  is  as 
natural  to  turn  to  her  grandeur  and  beauty,  as  to 
love  man  or  God,  to  work,  or  to  live  at  all.  The 
obligation  to  cultivate  this  sentiment  is  imperative, 
and  the  penalty  of  neglecting  it  is  as  fatal  as  the 
penalty  for  any  other  neglect.  And  as  nature  is 
always  before  us,  and  no  position  in  life,  excepting 
hopeless  bodily  or  mental  infirmity,  or  extraordinary 
tyranny  of  man,  can  shut  us  away  from  it,  we  are  in 
excusable  if  we  forfeit  this  common  privilege  of  hu 
manity.  The  excuses  by  which  men  apologize  for 
their  neglect  of  such  opportunities  are  inconclusive 
and  insignificant.  Business  is  no  excuse  to  the  man 


42  LESSONS    OF   A   JOURNEY. 

who  walks  to  and  from  his  place  of  toil  every  day, 
through  scenes  of  natural  beauty  which  claim  only  a 
passing  glance  for  a  partial  appreciation.  And  what 
right  have  we  to  give  up  this  soul  of  ours  so  entirely 
to  matters  of  toil  and  trade,  that  we  forget  the 
grander  things  all  around  us  ?  We  must  feed  our 
bodies,  but  must  we  therefore  starve  our  minds  ? 
We  must  clothe  ourselves  in  comfortable  raiment, 
but  should  we  therefore  fail  to  see  how  God  arrays 
the  grass  of  the  field  ?  We  must  build  a  house  to 
shelter  us  from  the  fury  of  the  elements,  but  is  that 
house  of  more  importance  than  those  elements  which 
hold  it  at  their  mercy?  And  if  any  position  of 
earthly  distinction  is  worth  the  trouble  of  effort,  shall 
we  not  occasionally  renew  the  sense  of  our  position 
as  dwellers  in  a  universe  that  is  the  natural  image  of 
its  Creator  ?  We  must  not  lose  our  hold  on  nature. 
We  degrade  and  enfeeble  ourselves  by  giving  up 
our  delight  in  its  enjoyments.  The  paltry  vanity  with 
which  we  often  put  off  her  claims  is  not  to  our  credit ; 
it  proves  us  not  wise,  but  foolish ;  it  is,  to  a  com 
petent  observer,  the  testimony  of  a  great  loss,  not  a 
great  gain.  Therefore,  we  must  guard  the  love  of 
nature  in  our  souls,  just  as  a  man  should  guard  any 
good  impulse  against  the  assaults  of  wordliness.  So 
must  we  never  permit  any  success  or  sorrow,  any 
idleness  or  industry,  any  circumstance  or  state  of 
mind,  to  shut  the  door  that  opens  out  of  our  spirits 
into  the  wide  spaces  of  our  Father's  glorious  crea 
tions.  Every  man  and  woman  should  have  special 
seasons  for  intercourse  with  nature  ;  should  be  will- 


LESSONS    OF   A   JOURNEY.  43 

ing  to  sacrifice  something  in  the  mere  outside  of  life 
to  purchase  opportunities  for  occasional  travel ;  should 
improve  the  means  already  at  hand  ;  should  regard 
the  satisfying  the  imagination  and  awakening  the  af 
fections  by  images  of  natural  sublimity  and  grace,  as 
a  positive  duty,  without  which  no  other  duty  can  be 
done  well — without  which,  manhood  and  womanhood 
will  lose  what  nothing  can  supply. 

This  is  one  of  the  lessons  I  brought  home  from  a 
journey  of  a  month  through  some  of  the  most  at 
tractive  portions  of  the  Middle  States.  And  yet 
another  \vas  more  powerfully  impressed  on  my  mind, 
so  that  if  I  were  asked  what  are  the  true  essen 
tial  conditions  of  gaining  the  best  results  of  travel, 
I  would  say  :  A  habit  of  close  and  accurate  observa 
tion  of  nature,  and  a  Christian  deportment  towards 
the  people  we  meet  in  our  journeyings, 

To  observe  nature  accurately  is  one  of  the  rarest 
accomplishments.  Most  of  the  people  in  the  world 
never  receive  entirely  correct  reports  from  their 
senses  concerning  the  universe  they  live  in.  And 
this,  because  of  no  deficiency  in  the  original  faculty 
of  observation,  but  from  carelessness  in  the  use  of 
that  faculty.  Our  Creator  has  given  us  eyes  and 
ears ;  but  we  can  use  these  gifts  in  such  a  way  that 
we  shall  see  or  hear  nothing  just  as  it  is.  We  may 
behold  the  grandest  spectacles  of  natural  beauty  in 
such  a  listless,  hazy,  or  sentimental  state,  that  we  see 
them  enveloped  in  our  own  distorting  atmosphere. 
We  may  be  stunned  and  crazed  by  the  mingled 
sounds  of  nature,  heard  with  no  discrimination  ;  and 


44  LESSONS   OF   A   JOURNEY. 

the  more  subtle  influences  in  the  material  creation 
may  be  wasted  on  our  stupidity  or  haste.  We  must 
not  expect  to  unlock  the  secret  chambers  of  the 
beauty  all  around  us  with  false  keys.  Only  healthy 
and  well  trained  senses  can  get  the  true  meaning  out 
of  these  things.  A  man  who  has  never  held  his  fac 
ulties  to  entire  veracity  in  this  respect,  lives  in  a  dif 
ferent  world  from  him  who  sees  everything  correctly. 
Whether  the  objects  of  a  journey  shall  be  one  con 
fused  mass  of  half  perceived  images,  or  a  succession 
of  charming,  well  defined  groups,  linked  with  undy 
ing  associations,  depends  chiefly  on  ourselves.  There 
fore  we  should  cultivate  truth  in  our  faculties  of  ob 
servation  ;  accustom  ourselves  to  see,  hear,  taste, 
feel,  and  smell  accurately;  accustom  our  minds  to 
receive  those  sensous  impressions  correctly ;  ac 
custom  ourselves  to  talk  with  precision  of  what  has 
thus  come  to  us,  and  as  far  as  possible  discriminate 
between  nature  and  what  we  make  it  by  means  of 
our  own  fancies,  and  in  every  way  try  to  read  the 
world  around  us  as  it  is.  I  urge  this,  not  so  much  as 
a  matter  of  good  taste  as  a  religious  duty.  Any 
thing  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth  doing  well.'  We 
have  senses  and  imagination,  and  God's  whole  cre 
ation  spreads  around  us ;  and  it  is  a  sin  to  make 
these  senses  and  that  imagination  liars,  by  our  care 
lessness,  haste,  or  sickly  affectation,  and  thus  shut 
ourselves  out  of  the  knowledge  of  the  creation  as  it 
is.  Besides,  we  cannot  be  untrue  in  one  respect 
without  being  injured  in  all.  Carelessness  in  the  use 
of  our  faculties  of  observation  converts  all  the  inter- 


LESSONS    OF    A    JOURNEY.  45 

preters  between  ourselves  and  the  outward  world  into 
false  witnesses.  We  then  live  in  a  false  conceit  with 
every  object  without  us ;  we  reason  falsely  on  these 
objects,  and  feel  in  a  morbid  way  concerning  them, 
and  connect  them  to  each  other  and  ourselves  by 
false  and  painful  ties  of  relationship ;  we  act  falsely 
as  the  inevitable  result  of  false  observation,  and  thus 
our  whole  character  gets  Avarped  from  the  truth. 
God  only  knows  how  much  superstition,  weak  and 
extravagant  sentiment,  and  downright  wrong-doing, 
spring  from  this  infidelity  of  observation — an  infirmity 
that  can  be  cured,  like  any  other,  by  patience  and  long 
discipline.  One  of  the  greatest  men  of  our  country 
told  me  that  he  had  been  accustomed  all  his  life  to 
demand  strict  accuracy  of  all  his  senses,  and  to  be 
true  to  his  actual  impressions ;  and  in  that  habit,  I 
doubt  not,  was  laid  the  foundation  for  his  peculiar 
superiority ;  for  one  of  the  most  radical  distinctions 
between  the  wise  and  foolish  man  is,  that  while  the 
former  sees  things  as  they  are,  and  deals  with  real 
ities,  the  other  sees  them  as  they  are  presented  by 
his  own  foolish  mind,  and  all  his  life  lives  among  ob 
jects  that  exist  in  his  own  distempered  fancy.  Thus 
the  virtue  of  accurate  observation  is  not  only  a  use 
ful  condition  of  profitable  traveling,  but  also  an  indis 
pensable  quality  in  the  Christian  character.  "If 
thine  eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out  and  cast  it  from 
thee.  Take  heed  how  ye  hear,"  says  the  great 
Teacher.  Use  the  faculties  by  which  you  learn  all 
things  so  faithfully,  that  they  shall  never  betray  you 
into  error  and  sin. 


46  LESSONS   OF   A   JOURNEY. 

The  second  condition  of  profitable  traveling  is 
Christian  politeness  towards  the  people  we  meet. 
The  difference  between  a  clown  and  a  gentleman  is 
nowhere  so  visible  as  upon  a  journey.  There  are 
persons  who  act  as  if  the  payment  of  a  railroad,  or 
boat,  or  hotel  fare  conferred  upon  them  the  privilege 
of  unlimited  selfishness.  To  occupy  the  best  seat 
or  the  best  room,  to  the  inconvenience  of  the  weak  or 
the  crowd  of  less  forward  travelers  ;  to  feast  at  a  pub 
lic  table  at  the  expense  of  a  dozen  half-fed  people 
around  you  ;  to  always  prefer  yourself,  and  act  every 
where  as  if  you  were  the  only  passenger  on  the  road, 
is  a  very  common  way  of  proving  one's  self  a  semi- 
barbarian.  Of  course,  a  proper  sense  of  self-respect 
and  self-protection  is  as  essential  to  a  good  man  in  his 
journeyings  as  elsewhere,  and  the  numberless  attempts 
at  fraud  and  extortion  he  everywhere  encounters 
should  be  met  with  decision.  But  it  is  one  thing  to 
repel  such  indignities,  and  another  to  engross  all  the 
comforts  of  a  journey  to  yourself.  A  Christian 
gentleman  is  willing  to  accept  his  own  share  of  the 
inconveniences  of  travel.  He  remembers  that  other 
people  are  as  capable  of  fatigue  as  himself,  and  will 
not  sit  in  obstinate  selfishness  through  a  long  journey, 
while  his  neighbor  is  losing  all  the  pleasure  of  his 
tour  by  an  uncomfortable  position.  He  will  despise 
the  meanness  of  bribing  officials  and  servants  to  treat 
him  carefully  and  luxuriously,  to  the  loss  of  his  fel 
lows.  I  have  seen  men  and  women,  who  called  them 
selves  gentlemen  and  ladies,  quietly  appropriate  to 
themselves,  in  this  way,  luxuries  and  comforts  that 


LESSONS    OF   A   JOURNEY.  47 

should  be  divided  among  several  persons  ;  and  though 
custom  may  be  some  excuse  for  such  conduct,  I  can 
not  help  thinking  that  it  always  betrays  an  innate 
vulgarity.  There  is  a  peculiar  obligation  due  from 
us  to  those  we  meet  on  a  journey.  Most  of  these 
persons  we  shall  never  see  again ;  it  is  our  only  op 
portunity  to  move  them  by  our  personal  influence. 
And  we  can  produce  an  impression  on  a  crowd  of 
eager  travelers  by  a  quiet  and  Christian  politeness 
which  will  never  be  forgotten.  Some  of  the  pleas- 
antest  recollections  of  my  youth  are  of  people  I  never 
saw  but  once,  and  then  engaged  in  some  act  of  cour 
tesy  to  their  traveling  companions.  It  is  not  well 
that  the  only  opportunity  given  us  to  impress  a 
brother  or  sister  with  our  manhood  or  womanhood, 
should  be  abused  by  an  act  of  selfish  disregard  of 
their  convenience  and  happiness. 

We  make  our  own  mark  at  such  times  ;  and  are  we 
willing  to  be  remembered  for  years  by  anybody  as 
the  manor  woman  who  scolded  in  the  cars,  or  pushed 
on  to  the  first  place  at  table,  or  procured  the  incon 
venience  of  a  neighbor  in  any  of  the  numerous  ways 
of  offense  possible  in  travel  ?  Such  a  notoriety  is 
not  to  be  sought  by  a  good  man,  but  may  be  left  to 
those  who  esteem  self  gratification  above  the  love  of 
our  neighbor. 

A  distinguished  orthodox  clergyman  says  a  min 
ister  should  never  travel  without  making  his  profes 
sional  character  everywhere  apparent.  I  think 
every  man  should  be  a  Christian  gentleman,  abroad 
as  at  home ;  not  by  talking  about  repentance,  cat- 


48  LESSONS    OF   A   JOURNEY. 

echising  his  neighbors,  and  parading  the  externals 
of  religion,  so  much  as  by  a  deportment  in  every  sit 
uation  that  shall  be  an  unfailing  test  of  his  worth  as 
a  man. 

With  these  qualifications — an  earnest  desire  to  see 
the  works  of  God,  and  study  the  character  and  cus 
toms  of  men ;  accurate  habits  of  observation,  and  a 
Christian  deportment — we  may  learn  much  in  a  little 
time.  There  is  no  country  so  rich  in  the  natural 
materials  for  improvement  in  this  respect  as  our 
own.  We  have  not  those  historical  associations 
which  glorify  the  old  world  to  the  cultivated  imagin 
ation  ;  but  in  natural  scenery  and  variety  we  are 
unsurpassed.  Our  rapid  means  of  communication 
lay  open  to  almost  every  man  the  grandest  spectacles 
in  nature.  There  are  few  people  who  cannot,  by 
economy,  save  enough  to  see  the  Sierras  and  the  lakes, 
and  so  much  grandeur  ;  to  behold  our  mountains 
and  valleys,  or  the  sea-shore.  There  are  hundreds 
of  interesting  places  in  the  country  or  city,  which 
can  be  enjoyed  by  a  little  self  denial  in  less  elevating 
pleasures.  How  much  more  rational  for  a  young 
man  or  woman  to  use  spare  time  and  means  in  such 
an  excursion,  than  to  waste  both  in  some  trifling 
pleasure,  or  frippery  of  dress,  or  equally  unimport 
ant  mode  of  enjoyment.  And  a  family  that  is  will 
ing  to  live  a  little  below  the  extreme  of  fashion,  and 
use  their  money  for  a  domestic  trip  to  such  a  place,  is 
wise.  Surely,  we  need  not  complain  of  lack  of  oppor 
tunity  to  keep  ourselves  free  from  the  trammels  of  a 
low  worldliness  in  such  a  land  as  ours. 


LESSONS    OF   A   JOURNEY.  49 

True,  our  temptations  are  great,  but  so  are  our 
privileges.  If  the  spirit  of  trade  is  here  peculiarly 
engrossing,  there  is  some  compensation  in  a  business 
tour  which  carries  a  man  up  one  of  our  noble  rivers, 
in  sight  of  any  of  our  vast  chains  of  mountains,  or 
across  one  of  our  inland  seas.  If  we  will  only  open 
our  eyes  and  other  senses,  and  let  American  scenery 
and  human  life  talk  to  our  souls,  we  can  resist  the 
contagion  of  our  national  toil,  and  haste,  and  want  of 
refinement.  God  is  speaking  to  our  people  through 
this  magnificent  country  and  this  sublime  spectacle 
of  life,  pouring  through  all  its  avenues  and  swarming 
out  to  its  farthest  boundaries ;  and  we  can  only  be 
true  to  our  destiny  as  Americans  by  living  as  grandly 
as  men  ought,  to  whom  is  reserved  such  wonderful 
opportunities  for  growth  in  all  things,  from  the  pos 
session  of  worldly  comforts  to  a  participation  in  the 
most  honorable  rights  of  humanity. 

4 


Milwaukee. 


BY    C.    F.    LEFEVRB. 

]j&EEP  in  a  bay,  with  bold  and  jutting  lands 
'  And  sandy  beach,  Milwaukee  proudly  stands. 
A  city  on  a  hill ;  whose  summit  high, 
With  steeples  crowned,  aspires  to  the  sky. 
While  down  its  sides  and  on  its  ample  breast 
Ten  thousand  households  find  their  peaceful  rest. 
Its  level  base  the  flashing  waters  lave — 
Milwaukee's  stream  and  Michigan's  blue  wave. 

Ye  bards  and  poets,  who  in  ancient  days 
Invoked  Apollo  to  inspire  your  lays — 
Or,  borne  on  Pegasus  in  upward  flight, 
Successful  scaled  Parnassus'  lofty  height — 
Such  happy  age  no  modern  muse  can  know, 
Phoebus  is  mute  and  Pegasus  no  go ; 
Olympus'  gods  have  faded  into  air, 
And  moldering  temples  only  say  they  were. 

Is  there,  then,  none  to  help  the  muse  along  ? 
Say,  in  his  breast  must  die  th'  unuttered  song  ? 
Not  so  ;  lo,  Progress,  on  the  car  of  time, 
Applies  the  steam  to  help  him  in  his  rhyme, 


MILWAUKEE.  51 

Allows  no  stops  or  lagging  in  his  verse, 
Drives  no  "  slow  coach,"  except  it  be  a  hearse, 
But  urges  onward  in  the  road  to  fame, 
Towards  the  goal,  "  Excelsior  "  its  aim. 

Sing,  then,  how  in  the  woods  a  city  sprung, 
Where  two  score  years  ago  no  axe  had  rung, 
Whose  sounding  stroke  was  never  known  to  daunt 
The  nymphs,  or  drive  them  from  their  hallowed 
haunt. 

Ill  nymphs  !  beneath  your  leafy  shade 
Remorseless  Progress  iron  tracks  has  laid, 
Your  forest  felled,  and  desecrated  groves 
Where  Hamadryads  told  their  sylvan  loves  ; 
And  kindled  with  the  sacred  trees  the  fire 
Wrapped  in  whose  lurid  flames  your  fanes  expire. 
Thus  the  royal  bird  of  cloud-compelling  Jove 
T 'extract  the  barbed  arrow  vainly  strove, 
Yet  saw,  ere  ebbing  life  had  left  his  heart, 
That  his  own  plume  had  winged  the  fatal  dart. 

In  sleeping  solitude  the  forest  lay, 

No  keel  as  yet  had  plowed  the  placid  bay  ; 

Alone  the  red  man's  humble  wigwam  stood, 

His  light  canoe  alone  had  skimmed  the  flood. 

The  white  man  came,  and  modest  was  his  claim — 

To  purchase  peltries  his  only  aim, 

Bracelets,  and  beads  and  baubles  gave  in  pay, 

For  which  he  bore  the  hard-earned  furs  away. 

But  greater  objects  soon  his  thoughts  aspire, 


52  MILWAUKEE. 

And,  Christian-like,  to  want  is  to  acquire. 
Visions  of  wealth  in  quick  succession  rise, 
And  avarice  urges  to  possess  the  prize. 
Majestic  trees  like  lofty  columns  stood, 
With  which  to  build  his  palaces  of  wood  ; 
Cascades  there  were  to  yield  the  needed  power 
To  shape  the  timber  or  prepare  his  flour. 

Still  further  on  he  saw  the  boundless  plain, 
Already  waving  with  the  golden  grain, 
And  only  stopped,  by  fancy  led  along, 
At  cities  peopled  with  the  busy  throng. 
Behind  him  lay  the  lake.     His  active  mind 
In  its  blue  depths  could  countless  treasures  find  ; 
Not  for  its  finny  tribes — though  even  there 
An  interest  lay  which  well  deserved  his  care. 
But  commerce  there  could  spread  her  whitened  sail. 
Transport  the  freight,  and  court  the  favoring  gale  ; 
Or  conquering  steam  resistless  force  impart, 
To  bear  the  produce  to  the  distant  mart. 

> 

The  die  is  cast,  the  vision  is  fulfilled ; 

Might  has  prevailed,  and  weaker  right  must  yield. 

Of  home,  of  graves,  of  lands  now  dispossessed, 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian  seeks  a  farther  west : 

A  hunting  ground  to  which  he  may  retire, 

Far  from  the  white  man's  guile  and  liquid  fire  ; 

A  life,  a  blanket,  wrested  from  his  toils, 

All  else  abandoned  as  the  victor's  spoils. 


MILWAUKEE.  53 

It  needs  no  prophet's  pen  the  fate  to  trace, 
The  last  sad  future  of  that  waning  race  ; 
Haters  of  work,  save  what  the  hunter  knows, 
The  ardent  chase,  then  indolent  repose. 
Where  shall  they  find  the  needed  hunting  lands 
When  East  and  West  are  linked  with  iron  bands ; 
When  iron  steeds  shall  pass  o'er  swelling  floods, 
And  the  shrill  whistle  wake  the  echoing  woods ; 
When  startled  beasts  shall  find  no  secret  lair, 
Their  dens  discovered  and  their  haunts  laid  bare  ? 
Then,  where  the  sun  shall  kiss  Pacific's  wave, 
They  '11  find  at  last  a  resting  place — their  grave. 

To  happier  scenes  my  willing  muse  invites, 
To  make  amSnds  for  violated  rights, 
Though  in  strict  truth  the  justice  is  but  small 
That  takes  from  Peter  what  it  pays  to  Paul, 
That  banishes  the  red  man  from  his  home, 
And  then  invites  the  foreigner  to  come  ; 
That  boasts  of  liberty  and  equal  laws, 
And  gains  the  meed  at  least  of — self-applause. 

Say,  who  are  they  of  fresh  and  ruddy  cheek, 
Whence   come  they,  and  what  language    do   they 

speak  ? 

These  are  the  dwellers  from  old  Father  Rhine, 
The  land  of  castles,  libraries,  and  wine  ; 
They  come  in  hopes    to  own  the  right  of  soil, 
And  bravely  yield  their  sinews  to  the  toil ; 
Patient  and  frugal,  hopeful  still  the  while, 
Ere  many  years  a  home  for  them  may  smile, 


54  MILWAUKEE. 

And  find,  'midst  kindred  and  affections  warm, 
Health  in  the  breeze  and  shelter  in  the  storm. 
Men  in  short  jerkins,  with  th'  unfailing  pipe  ; 
Women,  short  waists,  and  kirtles  with  a  stripe ; 
Trilling  some  native  air  they  pass  along, 
Alike  contented,  resolute,  and  strong. 
Huge  chests  they  bring,  with  clamps  securely  bound, 
Beneath  whose  lid  their  chattels  all  are  found  ; 
Clothes,  bibles,  bottles,  here  together  band, 
With  fond  memorials  from  their"  fatherland." 
Success  attend  them  !  and  success  they'll  find, 
But  on  these  terms — the  bottle  leave  behind. 

Norway  and  Sweden,  and  the  Alpine  hills, 
Whose  snow  dissolving  forms  cascading" rills, 
Where  the  bold  Swiss  pursues  the  chamois  light, 
Scales  the  steep  crag  and  dares  the  giddy  height ; 
Their  sons,  oppressed  with  poverty,  send  forth 
The  hardy  tenants  of  the  sterile  north. 
These  too  shall  triumph  if  their  arms  they  wield, 
Not  in  the  battle,  but  the  harvest  field. 

Ye  sons  of  Erin,  a  promiscuous  throng, 
The  muse  shall  not  neglect  you  in  her  song  ; 
To  you  the  honest  dues  she  willing  pays, 
Whose  pick  and  shovel  smooth  the  rugged  ways ; 
Whose  brawny  shoulders  heavy  burdens  bear, 
To  build  the  mansion  or  the  temple  rear. 
Yourselves  contented  with  the  humble  shed, 
With  wife,  with  children,  and  with  daily  bread — 
A  higher  destiny  your  sons  shall  find, 


MILWAUKEE.  55 

Where  public  schools  instruct  the  public  mind  ; 
By  nature  formed  of  quick,  impulsive  parts, 
A  ready  wit,  with  warm  and  generous  hearts, 
'T  is  theirs  in  future  days  to  take  their  stand 
Amidst  the  first  and  noblest  of  the  land. 
And  some  already  on  the  page  of  fame, 
In  glowing  characters,  have  stamped  their  name. 

England  !  my  native,  venerated  land, 
Few  are  thy  sons  that  seek  this  distant  strand ; 
E'en  among  those,  where  lust  of  gold  prevails, 
Who  leave  thy  fertile  fields  and  flowery  vales, 
A  hope  still  lingers,  when  their  toils  are  o'er, 
To  spend  life's  remnant  on  thy  sea-girt  shore  ; 
To  lay  their  heads  upon  thy  constant  breast, 
Like  patriots  blessing,  and  like  patriots  blest. 
Yes,  to  whatever  clime  thy  children  roam, 
Where'er  their  dwelling,  England  is  their  home. 
That  name  shall  dwell  unrivaled  on  their  tongue, 
That  land  where  Hampden  bled   and  Shakspeare 
sung. 

Farewell,  Milwaukee  !   may  some  worthier  lays 
In  coming  years  rehearse  thy  well-earned  praise  ; 
May  other  towns  from  thee  a  pattern  take, 
And  own  thee  Model  City  of  the  Lake. 
WISCONSIN,  glory  in  thy  honest  fame, 
And  hand  to  history  thy  deathless  name. 


BY    AGNES    LESLIE. 

HAD  two  proposals  last  night,  mamma,  one  of 
which  I  accepted  "  ;  and  the  beautiful  belle  of 
the  season  leaned  out  of  the  window  with  a  flushed 
cheek  and  trembling  lips.  The  worldly  mother 
looked  up  anxiously  :  "  You  accepted — " 

"Gilbert!" 

It  was  enough — she  did  not  care  to  know  more  ; 
the  expensive  jaunt  had  accomplished  all  she  wished. 
Florence  was  to  marry  a  millionaire !  No  more 
struggles  and  strivings  with  a  small  income,  to  keep 
up  the  appearances  of  a  larger  one.  The  future 
road  was  smoothly  paved  with  gold.  How  she  could 
look  down  upon  that  purse-proud  Mrs.  Laughton  and 
her  troop  of  over-dressed,  showy  girls !  She  did  not 
see  her  daughter's  troubled  face  nor  remark  her 
moody  silence  ;  it  mattered  not  to  her  if  she  stood  at 
the  altar  vowing  to  love  and  honor  the  man  by  her 
side,  when  another  occupied  her  heart. 

Mr.  Gilbert  was  a  Virginian  of  high  family,  drove 
fast  horses,  played  billiards  and  cards  scientifically, 
drank  the  best  wines,  smoked  the  best  cigars,  wore 


MARRYING   A   FORTUNE.  57 

the  finest  broadcloth,  sported  the  most  elegant  mous 
tache,  and  danced  divinely,  for  which  list  of  accomplish 
ments  the  fashionable  world  dubbed  him  gentleman. 
Congratulations,  therefore,  showered  down  upon  the 
future  Mrs.  Gilbert,  and  Florence  herself  was  as 
bright  and  beaming  as  a  bird  ;  only  sometimes,  when 
threading  the  intricacies  of  a  dance,  she  feels  the 
gaze  of  a  pair  of  eyes  from  a  distant  doorway,  which 
checks  the  coming  smile  and  the  gay  repartee.  She 
hears  again  a  few  low-breathed  words,  tremulous 
with  emotion  and  freighted  with  love,  offering  for  her 
rejection  a  warm,  true,  manly  heart.  A  thrill  of 
agony  convulses  her  as  she  remembers  the  words : 
"  God  help  you,  Florence,  in  all  darkened  hours." 
It  seems  like  a  prophecy  ;  but  she  has  put  her  hand 
to  the  plow,  and  she  will  not  turn  back,  though  it 
crush  her  life  out. 

Poor  Florence !  the  dark  days  are  coming — are 
even  now  here. 

A  fine  elegant  mansion  in  Richmond,  filled  with 
books,  pictures,  statues,  and  silken  drapery,  a  luxuri 
ant  carriage  drawn  by  dapple-greys,  a  fleet-footed 
Arabian  for  her  own  riding,  and  servants  to  do  the 
bidding  of  her  slightest  wish.  Enviable  Florence  ! 

"  What  a  superb  woman  Gilbert  has  got  for  a  wife, 
Morton!  I've  just  been  dancing  with  her." 

"  Yes,  that's  just  the  adjective  for  her,  according 
to  my  idea,  though  she  was  lovelier  before  her  mar 
riage  ;  there  was  more  animation  to  her  face — more 
heart,  in  short." 


58  MARRYING   A   FORTUNE. 

"  Oh,  well,  she  can  dispense  with  that ;  it  isn't 
necessary  for  Mrs.  James  Gilbert.  Didn't  Lennox 
fancy  her  at  one  time  ?  seems  to  me  I  remember 
something  of  that  kind." 

"  Yes,  he  was  vastly  pleased,  but  he  was  poor, 
you  know — a  captain  in  the  army;  that  would  n't  do, 
anyway.  He  was  the  best  fellow  in  the  world, 
though  not  to  be  mentioned  with  Gilbert — as  true 
as  steel." 

"  "Well,  he's  got  his  six  feet  of  earth,!  suppose, by 
this  time ! " 

"  How  !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  have  n't  you  seen  the  report  of  the  last  en 
gagement  ?  He  was  mentioned  as  amongst  the  slain." 

The  heavy  window  curtains  before  which  they 
stood  swayed  and  shook,  and  a  half-suppressed 
moan  went  out  upon  the  night  air. 

"  Come,  Morton,  let's  go  and  take  an  ice."  They 
moved  away,  while  a  white  figure  stole  out  upon  the 
piazza  with  faltering  steps,  and  within  hearing  of  the 
brilliant  music  and  light  laughter,  passed  wearily  up 
and  down. 

"  And  I  have  been  reveling  in  luxury,  while  he 
was  dying  in  a  foreign  land.  Oh,  Walter!  Walter! 
my  life  is  all  darkened  hours.  What  a  gilded  lie  I 
have  lived!  The  poverty  I  was  warned  against 
from  my  childhood  would  have  been  far  better  than 
this."  A  few  moments  more  of  heart-breaking 
agony,  and  then,  with  tearless  eyelids  and  a  colorless 
face,  she  entered  the  ball  room.  An  hour  after 
wards  she  was  handed  to  her  carriage,  with  many 
regrets  and  courtly  compliments. 


MARRYING   A   FORTUNE.  59 

Towards  morning  a  staggering  step  came  reeling 
into  the  dressing-room,  where  she  lay,  half  asleep, 
upon  the  sofa.  To  a  remonstrance  from  her,  a 
coarse  oath  was  the  reply,  and  then — Oh,  shame  and 
misery ! — a  blow  that  left  a  darkening  mark  upon 
her  white  shoulder  for  many  a  long  day  afterwards. 
The  dark  days  had  come ;  she  had  her  ray  of  sun 
shine,  though.  "  Dear  little  Charley,  love  mamma, 
always  love  mamma,  won't  you,  darling?"  and  the 
baby  would  cling  to  her  neck,  as  if  he  longed  to 
tell  her  of  his  love  and  sympathy.  He  was  not  like 
his  father — she  felt  glad  of  that — but  the  image  of  an 
only  brother,  who  died  in  boyhood.  One  day,  with 
the  livid  mark  yet  fresh  upon  her  shoulder,  but 
shrouded  with  an  Indian  crape  mantle,  the  gift  of 
the  hand  that  dealt  it,  she  sat  in  her  slowly  moving 
carriage  with  Charley's  soft,  small  fingers  clasped  in 
hers.  It  was  the  fashionable  hour  of  driving — gay 
groups  rolled  along,  and  gentlemen  on  horseback 
subdued  their  mettlesome  horses  to  pace  beside  the 
window  of  some  fair  lady.  Admiring  eyes  dwelt 
upon  the  mother  and  child,  and  hats  were  lifted  till 
she  passed.  There  were  merry  parties  of  bright 
smiling  faces,  families  of  parents  and  children,  yet 
only  she  and  Charley  in  that  spacious  carnage. 

A  sudden  bustle,  a  loud,  insolent  laugh,  and  they 
were  stopped  amid  a  crowd  of  vehicles,  while  the 
driver  of  an  open  barouche  was  striving  to  force  a 
passage  through  the  line  of  horses. 

"  Papa,  papa !  See ! "  cried  little  Charley. 
Florence  looked  up  ;  there  sat  her  husband,  flushed 


60  MARRYING   A   FORTUNE. 

with  wine,  talking  in  a  noisy  manner  with  a  flashy, 

painted  thing  known  as  Madame  K ,  the  actress. 

The  eyes  of  husband  and  wife  met  as  they  passed, 
but  to  his  bow  of  recognition  she  only  gave  a  stately 
stare,  while  slowly  from  her  shoulders  slid  the  In 
dian  mantle.  Why  do  his  red  lips  blanch  as  that 
purple  stain  meets  his  view  ? 

Poor  Florence  !  it  was  the  last  drop  in  her  bitter 
cup. 

"  Florence,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me,  and  call  on 
Madam  K to-night." 

She  put  the  cup  down  from  her  lips,  dismissed  the 
servant,  and  met  his  sullen  look. 

"  Well,  what'now  ?     Why  don't  you  speak  ?" 

"  I  can't  go  to  Madam  K 's  to-night," or  any 

other  time." 

"  You  shall  !  "  And  uttering  a  terrible  oath,  he 
rose  from  the  table. 

She  rose  at  the  same  time,  and  confronted  him. 

"  James  Gilbert,  it  is  time  we  understood  each 
other — aye,  strike  me  if  you  Avill,"  glancing  at  the 
bruised  shoulder,  now  turning  a  dull  green,  which 
showed  drearily  through  the  thin  muslin. 

It  was  but  a  few  words  she  said,  yet  he  went  out 
with  an  altered  mien.  A  divorce  would  never  do. 
She  was  too  much  admired  for  that.  He  liked  the 
buzz  of  admiration  that  always  greeted  them,  and 
the  words,  "  Gilbert 's  a  lucky  fellow." 

That  night  Florence  slept  uneasily.  Two  o'clock, 
and  her  husband  not  yet  returned.  It  was  no  unu- 


MARRYING   A   FORTUNE.  61 

sual  tiling  to  be  sure,  yet  now  an  undefined  fear 
crept  over  her.  "  Itark  !  what  is  that  ?  "  She  starts 
from  the  couch,  throws  on  a  dressing-gown,  and  goes 
out  upon  the  landing  of  the  stairs. 

"  This  way ;  my  missus  is  asleep.  Somebody 
must  be  sent  to  tell  her." 

"  What  is  it,  Cato  ?  " 

"  Massa's  got  a  fall  from  the  new  horse,  missus." 

They  bring  him  in  on  a  shutter,  covered  over  with  a 
cloth.  It  is  all  stained  with  blood,  and  the  outlines 
of  his  form  look  rigid  and  motionless. 

Everything  is  done  that  human  aid  can  do,  but  it 
is  useless.  He  only  awakes  to  consciousness  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  he  draws  the  pale,  sad  face 
down  to  his,  and  asks  her  to  forgive  him.  She 
whispers  comforting  words,  and,  listening  to  them,  he 
falls  asleep,  never  to  awake  on  earth. 

There  was  a  clause  in  his  will  that  left  her  penni 
less  if  she  married  again,  but  Florence  scarcely 
thought  of  it ;  the  only  man  she  would  have  bestowed 
her  hand  upon  was  dead.  What  a  chill  the  very 
word  sent  to  her  heart  ! 

Daily  up  and  down  the  beach  walks  a  beautiful 
woman,  with  a  little  boy  of  three  or  four  years.  Men 
regard  her  with  admiration  and  reverently  lift  their 
hats  to  her  stately  greeting,  and  ladies  court  the 
society  of  the  high-bred  Mrs.  Gilbert.  She  heeds 
it  not ;  a  little  child's  prattle  is  sweeter  to  her  than 
the  world's  homage. 

"  Mamma,  may  Charley  go  and  play  on  the  lawn 
with  Eddie  Clay  ?  " 


62  MARRYING   A   FORTUNE. 

She  ties  on  his  hat,  and  with  many  kisses  and  in 
junctions  not  to  stray  beyond  the  green,  she  lets  him 
go.  While  within  hearing  of  their  flute-like  voices, 
her  attention  is  soon  absorbed  in  Mr.  Kingsley's 
book,  "  Yeast."  She  comes  to  the  line 

"  Oh,  is  it  fish,  or  flesh,  or  floating  hair  ?  " 

when  a  shrill,  piercing  shriek,  which  makes  her 
mother's  heart  stand  still,  rings  out  upon  the  air. 

"  Merciful  Heaven !     What  can  it  mean  ?  " 

She  sees  two  or  three  gentlemen  throw  down  their 
cigars  and  rush  towards  the  beach.  Without  shawl 
or  bonnet,  she  flies  wildly  down  the  stairs,  across  the 
lawn,  and  meets  them  coming  towards  her.  There  is 
quite  a  crowd  of  people,  and  in  their  midst  a  man, 
dripping  wet,  bears  a  little  child,  its  blue-veined  eye 
lids  closed,  and  the  golden  curls  reeking  with  water. 

"  Charley  !     Charley  !  " 

Oh,  the  heart-breaking  agony  of  those  tones ! 
But  Charley  neither  speaks  nor  stirs.  They  carry 
him  in,  and  for  hours  he  lies  cold  and  pale  on  his  bed, 
while  anxious  faces  cluster  round,  and  busy  hands 
are  active  with  remedies.  ¥et  her  "  little  sunbeam  " 
will  not  depart — the  rosy  blood  flushes  the  delicate 
cheek  again,  and  life  comes  back  to  the  loving  eyes. 

"  But  where  is  my  boy's  rescuer  ?  You  must  bring 
him  to  me,  that  I  may  thank  him,  Mr.  Trevor." 

She  stands  beside  the  drawing-room  window,  look 
ing  out  with  vague  interest  upon  the  gay  groups, 
when  Mr.  Trevor  touches  her  arm  and  says, 

"  Colonel  Lennox,  Mrs.  Gilbert." 


MARRYING   A   FORTUNE.  63 

Breathlessly  to  the  careworn,  sunburned  face, 
she  lifts  her  eyes  ;  she  forgets  to  speak  ;  she  forgets 
the  wondering  gaze  of  Mr.  Trevor ;  only  those 
slightly-changed  features,  so  dear  to  her  heart,  meet 
her  vision. 

He  sees  her  agitation,  and  that  many  eyes  will 
soon  be  upon  them  ;  and  oifering  his  arm,  with  a  few 
common  words  of  courtesy,  which  recall  her  to  her 
self,  more  than  anything,  he  moves  away  Avith  her. 

"  It  was  quite  a  shock  to  see  one  whom  we 
thought  dead,  Colonel  Lennox.  We  heard  of  you 
as  among  the  slain,  in  the  last  engagement  at 
Mexico." 

"  I  recovered  from  wounds  which  were  thought 
mortal,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"  I  can  find  no  words  to  thank  you  for  yesterday's 
act  of  kindness  towards  my  Charley,"  she  says, 
calmly,  after  a  pause. 

"  Do  not  try,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  it  needs  no  thanks ; 
't  was  a  mere  act  of  humanity." 

So  cold  and  calm  !  Had  he  forgotten  the  past,  and 
the  words  "  God  bless  you,  Florence,  in  all  dark 
ened  hours  "  ? 

Up  and. down,  up  and  down,  the  long  room  he  led 
her,  till  her  head  swam,  and  her  footsteps  grew  un 
steady. 

"  You  are  faint,  Mrs.  Gilbert — let  me  lead  you  to 
the  air." 

"  No,  no,  to  my  room." 

They  are  alone  in  the  quiet  parlor ;  alone,  and  yet 
they  stand  side  by  side  like  strangers — they  whose 
hearts  once  thrilled  at  a  glance. 


64  MARRYING   A    FORTUNE. 

"  Walter,  Walter,  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ? 
Have  these  six  years  withered  the  heart  that  once 
bade  '  God  bless  me  in  all  darkened  hours '  ?  " 

"  Have  the  dark  hours  come  to  you,  Florence — 
bright,  beaming  Florence  ?  You  had  wealth,  and 
luxury,  and  love — how  could  it  touch  you  ?  " 

"  Do  not  mock  me,  Walter  Lennox  !  Such  misery 
has  been  mine — such  a  dreary,  darkened  life,  with 
not  one  ray  of  love  but  my  baby's  to  lighten  it  ";  and 
sinking  down  upon  the  lounge  beside  her,  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  He  was  by  her  side,  his 
soothing  words  in  her  ear. 

"  My  poor  Florence,  has  it  come  to  this  ?  I  thought 
you  were  beloved  and  happy  ;  the  world  told  me  so." 

"  Happy  !  Oh,  Walter,  the  curse  of  an  unloving 
marriage  was  mine.  You  know  not  what  scorn  and 
insult  I  have  endured  to  expiate  that  sin."  She 
went  over  the  bitter  past  briefly,  softening  as  much 
as  possible  all  that  was  painful ;  yet  the  loving  heart 
beside  her  read  in  the  blenching  cheek  and  faltering 
voice  what  the  lips  failed  to  utter ;  and  when  she 
concluded,  fond  arms  were  around  her,  and  fond 
tones,  breathing  the  same  unchanging  devotion  of 
other  years,  were  murmuring  in  her  ear,  and  bring 
ing  warmth  and  life  to  her  chilled  and  weary  heart. 

"  But  remember,  Walter,  by  my  husband's  will  I 
have  nothing  to  bring  you." 

"  Nothing  to  bring  me,  when  you  give  yourself  to 
my  keeping  ?  It  is  all  I  want,  Florence.  I  would  not 
touch  his  gold — it  has  brought  us  nothing  but 
misery." 


MARRYING   A    FORTUNE.  65 

Before  the  autumn  frost  crisped  the  leaves, 
Charley  had  a  new  papa.  Years  after,  when  a 
younger  Florence,  with  faltering  tones,  confessed  her 
love  for  one  poor  in  everything  save  the  priceless 
wealth  of  a  noble  heart  and  blameless  life,  the  mother, 
still  beautiful  and  admired,  warmly  gave  her  bless 
ing  and  consent.  The  young  daughter  looked  won- 
deringly  upon  her  parent's  agitated  face  as  she  said  : 

"Ah,  my  Florence  !  you  cannot  tell  my  happiness 
at  your  choice.  I  have  watched  the  suitors  that 
have  hovered  round  my  rose-bud  with  fear  and 
trembling — fear  lest  the  gay  life  we  lead  here  might 
turn  your  little  head,  and  beguile  your  good  sense 
into  the  false  belief  that  flattery  and  splendor  are 
equivalent  to  love." 

The  good,  but  somewhat  gay  and  coquettish  girl, 
took  these  words  of  counsel  and  approval  from  that 
reverently  admired  mother  to  her  inmost  heart,  and 
lived  to  prove  their  truth  in  after  years  of  happiness. 


Pi 


e. 

ORIGINAL. 


SsT  is  the  opinion  of  many,  at  least  we  should  judge 
^P  so  from  their  actions,  that  provided  a  thing  is  ac 
complished,  it  is  of  little  consequence  how  it  has  been 
done.  This  is  a  sad  mistake,  and  I  would  caution 
every  one,  especially  such  as  are  entering  on  the 
stage  of  active  life,  from  indulging  such  an  opin 
ion.  When  the  great  Athenian  orator  was  asked 
what  was  the  first  requisite  in  a  public  speaker,  he 
replied,  action  ;  when  asked  what  was  the  second,  he 
still  answered,  action  ;  and  the  same  question  being 
proposed  a  third  time,  the  answer  was  the  same  —  ac 
tion.  The  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  whose  letters  are  au 
thority  on  rules  of  politeness,  placed  as  much  stress  on 
manner  as  Demosthenes  did  on  action.  "  If,"  says  he, 
"  I  were  asked  what  would  most  promote  the  interests 
of  a  young  man,  entering  the  world,  I  should  say 
manner  ;  if  the  next  thing  necessary  for  this  purpose, 
I  should  say  manner  ;  and  if  the  third,  still  manner." 
I  am  not  prepared  to  go  all  lengths  with  Lord 
Chesterfield  on  this  particular  point  ;  but  as  he  was 
educating  his  son  for  a  courtier,  it  was  necessary  to 
insist  on  his  paying  strict  attention  to  his  manner 


THE   PUMPKIN   PIE.  67 

and  address.  I  am,  however,  persuaded  that  if  the 
Earl  was  too  strenuous  on  this  subject,  the  generality 
of  mankind  too  much  neglect  it.  In  our  inter 
course  with  the  world,  we  cannot  have  failed  to  re 
mark  the  comparative  ease  with  which  those  get 
along  who  have  made  it  their  study  to  do  things  in  a 
proper  manner.  If  we  listen  to  the  speaker  in  the 
senate,  at  the  bar,  or  in  the  pulpit,  we  shall  be  forci 
bly  reminded  that  his  success  mainly  depends  on  the 
manner  in  which  he  delivers  himself.  A  production 
which  in  print  would  afford  very  little  entertainment 
or  instruction,  will  be  listened  to  with  great  delight, 
and  even  edification,  if  delivered  in  an  easy,  forcible, 
and  graceful  manner.  On  the  other  hand,  a  dis 
course  replete  with  instruction,  classical  taste,  and 
beautiful  imagery,  often  falls  listless  on  the  ear,  and 
excites  no  pleasurable  emotions,  from  the  dull,  inele 
gant,  or  awkward  address  of  the  speaker. 

When  we  step  aside  from  these  more  prominent 
examples  into  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  life,  the 
rule  still  holds  good.  We  are  naturally  led  to  esteem 
and  countenance  those  whose  manners  and  actions 
are  distinguished  by  suavity  and  courtesy.  So  em 
phatically  true  is  it  that  there  is  a  right  way  in  do 
ing  things,  that  you  may  make  a  man  your  enemy 
in  granting  him  a  favor,  and  make  a  friend  of  him, 
even  when  you  deny  his  request.  You  may  bestow 
a  kindness  in  so  blunt  and  ungracious  a  manner  that 
he  who  receives  it  will  lose  sight  of  the  obligation  for 
the  favor  conferred,  and  scarcely  thank  you ;  and 
on  the  other  hand,  you  may  deny  with  so  good  a 


68  THE   PUMPKIN   PIE. 

grace,  and  such  manifest  regret,  that  you  will  win 
the  esteem  of  the  person  whose  petition  you  reject. 
Manner  is  to  matter  what  cookery  is  to  meat.  Two 
dishes  may  contain  precisely  the  same  ingredients, 
and  yet  while  the  one  will  be  delicious,  the  other  will 
scarcely  be  palatable. 

This  brings  to  my  mind  a  circumstance  in  my  own 
experience,  which  not  inaptly  illustrates  the  import. 
ance  of  attending  to  minutiae.  In  the  days  of  my 
boyhood,  my  father's  family  was  frequently  visited  by 
a  gentleman  who  for  several  years  had  resided  in  the 
United  States.  His  conversation  was  much  relished 
by  our  family,  and  more  especially  by  the  younger 
branches.  He  was  a  kind  of  Peter  Parley  in  the 
social  circle,  and  we  always  hailed  his  approach  as 
affording  a  promise  of  an  interesting  and  instructive 
visit.  I  can  see,  in  my  mind's  eye,  myself  and  my 
brother  sitting  in  our  little  chairs  at  his  feet,  and 
drinking  in  with  delight  his  graphic  description  of 
matters  and  things  which  had  come  under  his  notice 
while  in  foreign  lands.  I  am  not  sure  but  that  this 
gentleman  first  fired  my  young  bosom  with  the  spirit 
of  adventure,  and  led  me  at  an  early  age  to  roam 
the  Avorld.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I  was  completely 
captivated  with  his  conversation,  nor  was  it  less 
relished  by  the  elder  branches  of  the  family  ;  for  he 
was  well-informed,  happy  in  description,  and  could 
embellish  the  most  barren  subject  by  a  pleasing 
method  of  narration.  In  the  course  of  one  of  his 
visits  he  had  mentioned  with  approbation  having 
eaten  pumpkin  pies  in  America.  This  annunciation 


THE   PUMPKIN   PIE.  69 

produced  among  the  female  portion  of  his  audience 
the  most  evident  marks  of  surprise.  What !  make 
a  pie  out  of  a  pumpkin  ?  They  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  making  one  from  a  turnip.  The  conclu 
sion  was  hastily  adopted  in  their  minds  that  he  must 
be  in  jest.  On  the  assurance,  however,  that  it  was 
a  sober  fact,  the  next  conclusion  was  not  less  hasty  : 
that  those  who  could  relish  such  a  dish  must  possess 
a  barbarous  taste.  Our  friend  left  us,  but  not  before 
he  had  appointed  a  time  when  he  would  spend  a  day 
at  our  house.  As  he  resided  some  miles  from  my 
father's,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  setting  the  time  for 
his  visits. 

The  story  of  the  pumpkin  pie  seemed  to  make  a 
strong  impression  on  my  good  mother,  and  weighed 
heavily  on  her  spirits.  It  was  such  an  anomaly  in 
the  history  of  pies,  such  a  startling  exception  to  the 
best  established  rules  of  pastry  economy,  that  she 
could  scarcely  credit  the  story,  much  less  acquiesce 
in  the  judgment  and  taste  of  the  narrator  in  pro 
nouncing  it  excellent.  The  result  of  her  meditations 
was  a  resolution  to  test  the  truth  by  actual  experi 
ment  ;  and  that  the  advocate  of  pumpkin  pies  might 
be  triumphant  or  confounded,  she  determined  that 
the  pie  should  make  its  appearance  on  the  table,  on 
the  very  day  when  he  next  visited  us.  I  have  never 
seen  the  pumpkin  cultivated  in  England  as  an  article 
of  food,  either  for  men  or  cattle.  In  France,  I  have 
seen  it  frequently  in  the  market ;  and  it  is  used  by 
the  poorer  inhabitants  in  their  vegetable  soups. 
There  was,  however,  a  gardener  in  the  vicinity  of 


70  THE   PUMPKIN   PIE. 

my  father's  who  raised  a  few,  but  I  know  not  what 
use  he  made  of  them.  To  him  application  was  made, 
and  for  a  shilling,  a  fine  and  rich  pompion  (for  so  the 
word  is  spelt  and  pronounced  in  England)  was  pro 
cured.  The  pumpkin  was  brought  home  and  depos 
ited  in  the  pantry,  to  await  the  day  of  trial,  no  doubt 
greatly  to  the  astonishment  of  the  cook,  who  was  at 
a  loss  to  imagine  to  what  culinary  purpose  it  could 
be  put.  As  my  brother  and  myself  were  in  the  secret, 
we  awaited  with  no  small  degree  of  impatience  the 
appointed  day,  big  with  the  fate  of  pumpkin  pies. 
I  cannot  suppose  that  the  wheels  of  time  moved 
more  slowly  than  usual  in  bringing  the  desired  hour, 
but  they  appeared  to  do  so,  and  that  to  us  was  the 
same  thing.  The  tardiness  of  time  is  in  this  respect 
like  a  fit  of  hypochondria ;  imagination  becomes  a 
reality  to  the  sufferer,  and  fills  him  with  all  the  pains 
and  inconvenience  that  the  actual  disease  would  pro 
duce. 

There  was  no  small  stir  in  the  kitchen  department 
on  the  day  when  the  expected  guest  was  to  make 
his  appearance.  The  pumpkin  was  brought  out  and 
placed,  like  a  subject  for  dissection,  on  the  table.  A 
deep  dish  was  brought,  a  rich  crust  of  paste  lined  it, 
and  the  knife  was  raised  to  slay  the  pumpkin.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  my  mother  trembled,  and  that 
the  servants,  who  were  spectators  of  the  unheard-of 
deed,  were  filled  with  dismay  at  the  awful  experi 
ment.  The  unhappy  pumpkin  was,  however,  soon 
divided,  and  subdivided,  cut  up  in  its  natural  state, 
in  pieces  about  as  large  as  it  is  customary  to  cut  the 


THE   PUMPKIN   PIE.  71 

fruit  in  making  an  apple  pie  ;  next,  it  was  placed  in 
the  dish  appointed  for  its  reception,  being  well 
sugared  and  spiced  ;  next,  it  was  surmounted  with  a 
coverlid  of  paste,  and  finally  consigned  to  the  oven. 
At  the  usual  hour  our  old  friend  made  his  appear 
ance,  and  one  or  two  more  were  invited  to  partake 
of  the  feast.  The  dinner  passed  off  much  in  the 
usual  manner,  except  a  gentle  hint,  which  my  good 
mother  could  not  repress,  that  there  was  a  favorite 
and  delicate  dish  in  store,  and  that  ifc  would  be  well 
to  "keep  a  corner"  for  that.  On  clearing  away 
the  meat,  sure  as  fate,  the  pie  made  its  appearance, 
large,  deep,  and  smoking  hot.  It  was  suggested  that 
the  dish  was  of  foreign  parentage,  and  a  hope  was 
expressed  that  due  honor  might  be  done  to  the 
stranger.  My  good  mother  dealt  it  out  to  the  ex 
pectant  guests  in  no  stinted  measure,  and  requested 
them,  if  not  sufficiently  sweet,  "  to  sugar  for  them 
selves."  Alas,  the  want  of  sweetness  was  its  least 
failing  !  My  brother  and  myself  narrowly  watched 
the  countenances  of  the  guests,  with  that  unerring 
knowledge  of  physiognomy  which  even  children  pos 
sess.  Our  observations  were  anything  but  favorable, 
and  the  promise  they  afforded  of  pleasure  in  partak 
ing  of  the  delicacy,  far  from  flattering.  A  wry 
face  and  a  crash  between  the  teeth  proclaimed  the 
presence  of  the  pumpkin,  but  it  did  not  argue  that  it 
was  a  dainty  morsel  by  any  means.  An  unwillingness 
to  discredit  the  cookery,  and  a  feeling  of  courtesy, 
obtained  for  the  raw  subject  a  reception  which  he 
would  not  have  otherwise  enjoyed.  My  parents, 


72  THE   PUMPKIN   PIE. 

who,  of  course,  by  the  established  laws  of  etiquette 
were  the  last  to  partake,  felt  unquestionably  some 
what  mortified  at  the  feeble  encomiums  which  were 
passed  on  the  occasion.  One,  wishing  to  disguise 
his  abhorrence  of  the  raw  material  he  was  champ 
ing,  modestly  remarked  that  "  he  thought  the  fruit  a 
little  too  crisp."  Another  had  no  question  of  its 
goodness,  but  he  never  was  partial  to  fruit  pie.  A 
third  more  bluntly  and  honestly  said  that  it  was  not 
quite  baked  enough.  But  now  the  time  had  arrived 
for  my  mother  herself  to  test  her  own  experiment, 
and  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  look  of  utter  dismay 
she  gave  on  tasting  the  pie.  On  the  very  first 
mouthful,  the  very  first  crack  at  the  vegetable,  the 
whole  concern  exploded.  It  was  pronounced  hor 
rible,  detestable,  unfit  for  any  one  but  a  savage  or 
barbarian.  All  eyes  were  now  turned  to  our  "  trav 
eled  friend,"  on  the  strength  of  whose  description  the 
pie  had  been  made.  His  face  was  red,  tears  start 
ing  in  his  eyes,  his  hands  on  his  sides,  and  he  was 
choking,  not  with  pumpkin,  but  laughter.  I  do  not 
know  but  that  my  mother  gave  him  a  worse  look  than 
she  did  the  pie  when  she  first  stuck  her  teeth  in  its 
uncooked  contents.  But  the  joke  was  too  good  to 
yield  to  a  dozen  such  looks,  and  it  was  not  till 
his  laughter  had  found  a  vent  that  an  explanation 
took  place.  My  mother  accused  him  of  having 
trifled,  in  his  declaration  that  the  Americans  ate 
pumpkin  pies,  and  that  they  were  good.  He  as 
stoutly  maintained  that  such  was  the  sober  fact. 
This  led  to  the  inquiry  how  they  were  made,  and 


THE   PUMPKIN   PIE.  73 

the  mystery  was  at  once  revealed.  My  good 
mother  had  got  everything  that  was  good  of  its 
kind  into  the  pie,  but  unfortunately  she  had  forgot 
ten — to  stew  the  pumpkin! 

Benjamin  Franklin  tells  us  that  the  first  bargain 
which  he  ever  made  was  a  very  bad  one.  He  gave 
all  his  pocket-money  for  a  penny  whistle.  In  after 
life,  when  he  saw  men  sacrificing  substantial  good 
for  useless  trifles,  he  used  to  moralize  and  say  "  they 
pay  dear  for  their  whistle." 

The  story  which  I  have  related  above  carries  with 
it* a  suitable  moral,  and  as  I  write  for  instruction  as 
well  as  amusement,  I  beg  to  press  it  on  the  attention 
of  the  reader.  It  is  true,  as  a  general  remark,  that 
the  materials  which  life  furnishes  are  the  same  to  all, 
but  the  happy  disposition  of  the  parts  is  our  own 
individual  care.  And  here  the  reader  will  perceive 
that  he  is  brought  to  the  very  point  from  which  we 
set  out,  namely,  the  importance  of  manner  as  well  as 
matter.  A  slovenly,  careless,  or  indifferent  method, 
will  very  much  detract  from  the  best  performance. 
It  is  unimportant  whether  such  a  disposition  refers 
to  the  body  or  the  mind.  It  is  the  sentiment  of 
Horace,  that  there  exist  certain  limits  within  and 
beyond  which  moral  rectitude  cannot  exist.  I  am  of 
the  same  opinion,  and  I  would  carry  the  sentiment 
into  all  the  details  of  life.  There  is  a  certain  fitness 
and  propriety,  the  neglect  of  which,  if  not  positively 
,a  vice,  is  at  least  negatively  a  want  of  correct  prin 
ciples  of  action.  Whenever  a  good  sermon  or  ora 
tion  of  any  kind  is  spoiled  for  the  want  of  a  little 


74  THE   PUMPKIN   PIE. 

study  to  give  it  proper  effect — whenever  any  virtue 
is  exhibited  so  coarsely  as  to  deprive  it  of  its  loveli- 
nesss  —  whenever  any  action,  in  short,  however 
meritorious,  is  ungraciously  performed — we  feel  con 
strained  to  express  our  regret,  and  say  of  the  agent 
in  the  case,  "  What  a  pity  that  he  did  not  stew 
his  pumpkin."  C.  F. 


HE  only  correct  definition  of  poetry  appears  to 
be  :  the  delineation  of  the  beautiful  and  the 
true  as  existing  above,  in,  and  around  us.  The  ma 
terials,  therefore,  may  be  considered  ample ;  'the 
only  difficulty  lies  in  not  finding  or  appreciating 
practical  objects,  and  the  want  of  skill  in  arranging 
the  emotions  which  such  objects  call  up  in  the  mind. 
Numbers  and  melody  are  not  at  the  command  of 
every  one  who  may  enter  deeply  into  the  poetic  in 
spirations  created  by  an  object  of  nature  or  art ; 
and,  consequently,  while  much  that  is  written  is  not 
poetry,  much  that  is  actually  so  remains  unwritten. 

If  poetry  embraces  the  wide  range  that  we  have 
assigned  it,  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true,  it  is  evident 
that  nature  must  be  the  most  fruitful  source  of  in 
spiration.  Art  generally  ceases  to  be  either  beau 
tiful  or  true,  when  it  deviates  to  any  considerable 
extent  from  nature.  This  must  be  felt  by  any  one 
conversant  with  painting  or  sculpture,  in  which  the 
greatest  effects  are  always  produced  by  approxima 
tion  to  nature  ;  and  the  more  faithful  the  delineation, 
or  in  other  words,  the  closer  the  adherence  to  na 
ture,  the  more  complete  the  triumph  of  the  artist. 


76  POETRY. 

No  man  or  woman  ever  looked  upon  the  celebrated 
statues  in  the  Medicean  Gallery  at  Florence,  with 
out  feelings  assimilated  to  poetical  ones.  They  may 
not,  as  in  the  case  of  Byron  and  thousands  of  others, 
have  taken  the  shape  of  verse,  but  in  the  speechless 
admiration  was  embodied  the  soul  of  poetry,  though 
they  themselves  were  not  perhaps  conscious  of  the' 
fact.  Why  this  deep  feeling  in  a  work  of  art  ? 
Because  they  see  in  the  work  nature  herself ;  the 
glorious  inspiration  of  genius  ;  the  embodying  of  the 
beautiful  and  the  true,  that  with  them  may  have 
been  hitherto  only  ideal. 

The  man  who  stands  for  the  first  time  and  gazes 
on  the  beautiful  and  majestic  columns  of  the  Parthe 
non  at  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  feels  a  mingled  emo 
tion  of  admiration  and  sublimity,  for  the  existence  of 
which  he  is  scarcely  able  to  account.  Place  him  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  our  primeval  forests,  when  the 
o'erarching,  magnificent  trees  tell  of  countless  ages 
gone  by,  and  in  the  massive  trunks  and  interlaced 
canopy  he  traces  the  rich  and  unequaled  original, 
and  finds  that  in  his  admiration  of  art  he  has  only 
bowed  to  the  copyist  of  the  mighty  Master.  Nature 
then,  is  full  of  poetry,  because  all  the  elements  of 
the  beautiful  and  the  true  are  there  combined.  Art 
furnishes  the  materials  only  as  an  imitator.  No  one 
can  look  abroad  on  the  beautiful  earth,  with  its 
mantle  of  rich  green  and  smiling  flowers,  without 
feeling  that  flowers  are  indeed  "  the  poetry  of  the 
earth."  How  much  that  is  delightful  do  these  little 
mementoes  call  up :  recollections  savoring  deeply  of 


POETRY.  77 

the  poetry  and  the  freshness  of  youth.  Flowers  tell 
of  rambles  in  the  meadow — chases  after  the  golden- 
winged  butterflies — tokens  of  affection  and  love  ;  alas, 
that  they,  like  the  flowers  should  so  often  and  so 
early  fade ! — the  mystic  language  of  passion  and 
love,  read  with  blushes  and  remembered  with  tears, 
sometimes  of  joy,  but  oftener,  we  think,  of  sadness ; 
and  not  infrequently  they  speak  a  deep-toned  mor 
ality  to  which  all  would  do  well  to  take  heed. 

The  lessons  they  inculcate  are  of  the  purest  kind  ; 
the  truths  they  teach,  such  as  no  one  should  forget. 
In  their  rich  buds  we  see  the  opening  promises  of 
childhood's  spring;  in  the  withered  and  scattered 
petals  is  found  a  no  less  lively  emblem  of  the  close 
of  man's  fevered  career.  The  shortest-lived  flower 
has  scarcely  to  wait  for  the  fading  of  the  child  that 
with  it  commenced  its  bright  and  sunny  career. 

Look  at  that  beautiful  little  girl.  Wild,  playful, 
confiding,  affectionate,  fearless,  and  full  of  love,  the 
very  picture  of  sinless  innocence  and  heavenly  hope. 
Now  her  arms  are  around  your  neck,  now  her  child 
kiss  is  on  your  cheek,  and  now  her  curling  hair  is 
floating  in  the  summer  wind  as  she  bounds  over  the 
green  turf,  frolicsome  as  the  kitten  or  the  spaniel, 
her  companions.  There  is  health  on  her  cheek, 
there  is  freedom  in  her  movements,  there  are  light 
ness  and  joy  in  her  heart.  Thoughts  of  conquests, 
and  equipages,  and  settlements,  have  never  yet 
found  a  place  in  her  dreams — deep  and  passionate 
emotions  have  not  yet  left  their  traces  on  her  heart, 
nor  disturbed  the  quietness  of  her  summer's  sea — 


78  POETRY. 

soul,  which  constitutes  the  hell  or  heaven  of  woman, 
is  in  its  ordinary — shall  we  say  degraded  ? — sense  to 
her  unknown,  and  the  thousand  causes  that  will  yet  go 
to  make  up  the  sum  total  of  her  weal  or  woe,  have 
not  yet  commenced  their  exciting  operations.  The 
hateful  passions  that  "  mixing  with  the  world  "  is  so 
apt  to  engender  and  foster,  and  from  which  the  young 
can  hardly  hope  to  escape,  have  not  found  a  place  or 
left  their  dark  stains  in  her  pure  bosom.  She  is 
now  poetry  itself;  living,  moving  poetry;  an  incar 
nation  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true.  Would  that 
she  could  always  remain  so. 

Stars  are  the  "  Poetry  of  Heaven  " — traced  by 
the  Almighty's  own  hand,  and  not  the  less  worthy  of 
being  read,  because  we  do  not,  like  the  astrologers 
of  old,  find  revealed  in  their  glittering  lines  the 
mysteries  of  fate  and  the  destiny  of  man.  How 
exquisitely  delightful  to  stand  and  see — as  the  twi 
light  deepens  into  darkness,  as  objects  on  earth,  one 
after  another,  fade  and  go  out — the  dust  of  the 
sapphire  court  of  heaven  changing  to  gems  of  fire 
beneath  His  feet  who  upholds  creation.  We  pity 
from  our  soul  the  man  who  can  look  on  the  glorious 
garniture  of  the  skies,  the  golden  west,  with  its  piled 
up  masses  of  purple  clouds,  the  planets  wheeling 
their  wide  rounds  to  their  own  eternal  music,  the 
stars  glittering  in  their  own  sea  of  light,  at  incon 
ceivable  and  illimitable  distances,  and  not  feel  that 
he  who  can  comprehend  the  smallest  part  of  the  mag 
nificent  plan,  and  weigh  and  measure  the  smallest 
of  those  celestial  bodies,  must  be  more  noble  than 


POETRY.  79 

the  dust  he  treads,  more  durable  than  planets,  or 
stars,  or  systems.  He  must,  indeed,  be  but  imper 
fectly  organized,  who  can  spend  a  single  eve  of  mild, 
sweet  summer,  beneath  the  blue,  o'erspreading  sky, 
and  not  feel  that  the  beautiful  and  the  true  are  before 
him,  nor  experience  the  least  moving  of  the  Divine 
afflatus.  Such  a  man  was  not  Derzhavan,  when, 
with  the  works  of  the  Creator  before  him,  and  fully 
imbued  with  feelings  of  His  majesty  and  power,  he 
chose  for  a  theme  that  great  name  whose  power 
upholds,  supports,  and  circles  all. 

GOD. 

0,  Thou  eternal  One,  whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide, 
Unchanged  through  Time's  all-devastating  flight — 
Thou  only  God !     There  is  no  God  beside  ! 
Being  above  all  beings  !     Mighty  One, 
Whom  none  can  comprehend,  and  none  explore, 
Who  fill  'st  existence  with  thyself  alone  ; 
Embracing  all,  supporting,  ruling  o'er, 
Being  whom  we  call  God,  and  know  no  more. 

In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 
May  measure  out  the  ocean  deep,  may  count 
The  sands,  or  the  sun's  rays  ;  but  God,  for  thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure  :  none  can  mount 
Up  to  thy  mysteries.     Reason's  brightest  spark, 
Though  kindled  by  thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 
To  trace  thy  counsels  infinite  and  dark ; 


80  POETRY. 

And  thought  is  lost,  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 
Even  like  past  moments,  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 
First  chaos,  then  existence  ;  Lord,  on  thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation.    All 
Sprung  from  thee  ;  of  light,  joy,  harmony, 
Sole  origin ;  all  life,  all  beauty  thine. 
Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create  ; 
Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine. 
Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shall  be,  glorious,  great, 
Life-giving,  life-sustaining  potentate. 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround — 

Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with  breath, 

Thou,  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 

And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death. 

As  sparks  mount  upwards  from  the  fiery  blaze, 

So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  Thee  ; 

And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays, 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 

Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise. 

A  million  torches,  lighted  by  Thy  hand, 
Unwearied  wander  through  the  blue  abyss  ; 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command, 
All  gay  with  life,  and  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  ?     Piles  of  crystal  light  ? 
A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams  ? 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether,  burning  bright  ? 
Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams  ? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 


POETRY.  81 

Yes,  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea 
All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost. 
What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  Thee  ? 
And  what  am  I  then  ?   Heaven's  unnumbered  host, 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  item  in  the  balance,  weighed 
Against  Thy  greatness — is  a  cipher  brought 
Against  infinity.      What  am  I  then  ?     Naught. 

Naught :  but  the  effulgence  of  Thy  light  divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too. 
Yes,  in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine, 
As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
Naught :  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly, 
Eager  towards  Thy  presence  ;  for  in  Thee 
I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell  ;  aspiring  high, 
Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  divinity. 
/  am,  0  God,  and  surely  Thou  must  be ! 

Thou  art ;  directing,  guiding  all :  Thou  art ; 
Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee  ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart. 
Though  but  an  atom  'midst  immensity, 
Still  I  am  something  fashioned  by  thy  hand  ; 
I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand 
Close  on  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth, 
Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit  land. 


82  POETRY. 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me ; 

In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 

And  the  next  step  is  spirit.     Deity, 

I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ; 

A  monarch,  and  a  slave ;  a  worm,  a  god. 

Whence  came  I  here,  and  how  ?     So  marvelously 

Constructed  and  conceived  ?    Unknown  ?    This  clod 

Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy, 

For  from  himself  alone  it  could  not  he. 

Creator  ?     Yes.      Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  me.     Thou  source  of  life  and  good, 
Thou  Spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord, 
Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 
Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
O'er  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 
The  garment  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 
Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere 
Even  to  its  source,  to  Thee,  its  author  there. 

0  thought  ineffable  !     0  vision  blest ! 
Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  Thee, 
Yet  shall  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 
And  waft  its  homage  to  thy  Deity. 

God  !     Thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar, 
Thus  seek  Thy  presence.     Being  wise  and  good 
'Midst  Thy  vast  works,  admire,  obey,  adore ; 
And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more 
The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 


POETRY.  83 

There  are  few  objects  in  nature  more  poetical,  or 
calculated  to  make  a  deeper  impression  on  the  mind, 
than  the  "  deep,  deep  sea,"  with  its  immensity  of 
waters,  booming  its  sullen  roar  upon  a  thousand 
shores,  and  with  its  tone  majestic  melting  into  har 
mony  the  rich  melody  of  "  nature's  anthem."  There 
is  no  more  tangible  representation  of  immensity  and 
power  than  the  ocean,  and  he  who  looks  upon  it  for 
the  first  time  experiences  emotions  he  cannot  willingly 
forget.  Mountains  are  another  object  of  earth, 
sublime  and  poetical  in  the  highest  degree.  There 
is  something  so  majestic,  something  which  speaks  of 
eternity,  in  their  "  thunder-smitten  pinnacles,"  that 
we  partake  of  feelings  which  can  find  expression 
only  in  the  language  of  poetry.  Coleridge's  Hymn, 
written  in  the  vale  of  Chamouni,  in  the  presence  of 
Mont  Blanc,  is  a  splendid  proof  of  such  influence 
on  the  philosopher  and  the  poet.  Large  rivers,  deep, 
full,  drawing  their  waters  from  a  thousand  sources, 
but  lost  at  last  in  the  abysses  of  the  ocean, 
a  type  of  time  swallowed  up  in  eternity,  form 
a  part  of  that  transcendent  poetry  which  forms 
part  of  His  works  who  creates  objects  and  harmo 
nizes  all  His  designs.  Mortals,  when  listening  to 
the  music  of  nature,  sometimes  catch  a  few  of  its 
tones,  and  repeat,  though  at  an  immeasurable  dis 
tance,  some  of  the  faintest  of  its  harmonies  ;  then 
they  give  us  poetry,  unwritten  to  them  ;  poetry  from 
the  true  source  of  inspiration,  the  beautiful  and  the 
true. 

What  man  or  woman  is  there  who  has  not  felt 


84  POETRY. 

poetic  imaginings  crowding  upon  them  when  in.  the 
still  beauty  of  a  summer's  evening  they  have  gone 
forth  and  seen  the  fire-fly  flashing  in  the  forest  gloom, 
while  on  the  masses  of  foliage  that  swell  and  heave 
upward  in  the  margin,  the  silver  moonlight  lies  piled 
like  drifted  snow.  There  is  but  a  shade  of  difference 
between  poetry  and  love ;  is  it  strange,  then,  at  such 
a  moment,  when  the  heart  is  most  susceptible  of 
impressions  belonging  to  the  beautiful  and  the  true, 
the  two  should  spring  up  together,  or  that  one 
should  sometimes  be  mistaken  for  the  other.  The 
religion  of  the  Catholic  is  the  religion  of  poetry. 
The  dim-lighted  cathedral,  the  solemn  music,  the 
rich  paintings,  images  that  banish  ideality,  and  the 
service  of  the  incense,  all  speak  of  the  passions,  all 
belong  to  poetry  rather  than  to  the  understanding. 
Love,  too,  is  mingled ;  but  who  cannot  see  that 
in  the  cathedral  as  well  as  in  the  conventicle,  it  is 
a  love  tinctured  with  earth,  insensibly,  perhaps,  but 
not  the  less  deeply.  The  male  devotee  offers  his 
prayers  to  the  Virgin,  and  the  woman  Mary  is  pres 
ent  with  him  rather  than  the  Mother  of  God.  The 
nun,  young  and  beautiful,  disappointed  in  her  affec 
tions  perhaps,  and  secluded  from  the  world,  kneels 
before  the  crucifix,  pure  in  heart,  though  still  with 
affections  belonging  to  human  love,  worships  the 
man,  Christ  Jesus.  Love  is  from  the  Deity,  and  in 
its  aspiration  it  naturally  flows  thitherward  again; 
and  though  all  that  is  human  has  some  stains  of 
earth,  the  more  its  wings  are  cleansed  from  these,  the 
higher  will  be  its  flight,  and  the  nearer  its  approach 


POETRY.  85 

to  the  unspotted  love  of  heaven.  Is  there  no  danger 
that  with  the  gifted  and  mind-illumined,  poetry 
may  take  the  place  of  religion,  as  earthly  feel 
ing  sometimes  usurps  the  throne  of  Uranian  love  ? 
We  fear  this. 

By  some,  the  high  moral  lessons  and  life-giving 
doctrines  of  the  new  dispensation  have  been  deemed 
unsuitable  to  poetry,  as  wanting  the  high  grandeur 
and  mystical  sublimity  of  the  old.  Even  this,  in  the 
hands  of  Byron  and  Moore,  proved  sadly  wanting  in 
poetic  inspiration,  if  the  Sacred  Melodies  of  one,  and 
the  Hebrew  Melodies  of  the  other,  are  to  be  consid 
ered  as  the  natural  results  of  the  study  of  the  Scrip 
tures.  Fortunately,  the  proof  is  abundant  that  the 
fault  in  these  cases  was  in  the  men,  not  in  the  theme. 
Their  wings  were  so  clogged  with  the  night  dews  of 
earth,  the  mephitic  exhalations  of  sensuality,  that 
they  were  unable  to  rise  to  the  high  argument  before 
them.  Not  so  with  Milton  and  Milman,  who  found 
the  harp  of  Isaiah,  even  though  touched  by  unin 
spired  fingers,  still  gave  out  tones  of  unequaled  har 
mony. 

We  think  our  examples  will  establish  our  notion 
of  poetry,  and  prove  our  definition,  that  it  is  a 
delineation  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true.  Still,  there 
are  some  who  cannot  feel  poetry,  and  who  do  not 
love  it.  It  is  but  a  short  time  since  we  heard  a 
young  gentleman  of  tolerable  education,  and  consid 
erable  pretensions  to  ton,  declare  that  poetry  was  his 
abhorrence,  and  that  he  never  read  it.  Such  want 
of  sympathy  with  nature  would  make  us  afraid  of 


86  POETRY. 

any  man,  as  furnishing  incontestible  proof  of  aberra 
tion  in  the  organization.  To  be  not  able  to  write 
poetry  is  no  disgrace  ;  to  not  properly  appreciate  it 
is  wholly  another  affair,  as  closing  to  us  the  volume 
in  -which  is  written,  more  than  in  any  other,  the  most 
splendid  efforts  of  genius,  and  exhibited  with  un 
rivaled  clearness  the  highest  glories  of  creation. 

A.  S.   D. 


BY  MRS.  R.  FRAZER. 

^EAVING  Sacramento  about  a  year  since,  for 
the  purpose  of  traveling  through  Oregon  to 
sell  a  little  book  which  I  had  written,  to  raise  means 
to  finish  a  house  which  I  proposed  to  use  as  a  semin 
ary,  I  traveled  by  railway  as  far  as  Bed  Bluff.  It 
was  nine  o'clock  at  night  when  the  stage  agent  passed 
through  the  car,  calling  out :  "  Any  one  going  to 
Yreka,  price  twenty  dollars."  Our  stage  passengers 
consisted  of  a  little  Scandinavian,  his  big  wife  and 
five  small  children.  .This  family  were  from  Minne 
sota.  The  climate  being  too  cold  to  remain  there 
any  longer,  they  thought  of  settling  somewhere  in 
Oregon. 

The  driver,  who, by  the  way,  was  an  affable  fellow, 
looked  in  the  stage  coach  and  asked  me  (we  were 
then  quite  near  Soda  Springs)  if  I  would  like  to 
ride  >  outside.  I  willingly  accepted  the  offer,  and 
quickly  ascended  to  the  driver's  seat.  The  scene 
here  was  enchanting,  on  both  sides  of  the  road.  Just 
before  sunset,  the  roaring  and  tumbling  of  the  waters 
of  the  springs,  the  reflection  of  the  setting  sun  on 
the  spray  sparkling  like  thousands  of  sapphires,  the 
coolness  of  the  atmosphere,  all  blending,  as  it  were, 


88        TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

together — the  scene  was  most  lovely.  It  was  now 
June,  and  all  nature  iti  that  region  had  put  on  her 
brightest  green. 

After  riding  thirty  hours,  we  arrived  at  the  town 
of  Yreka.  Stopped  at  the  hotel  kept  by  three  par 
ties,  two  of  them  Germans,  the  other  a  Canadian, 
Mr.  Lebeaux.  I  will  here  mention,  the  Yrekans 
feel  much  indebted  to  our  San  Franciscans  for  the 
aid  rendered  to  them  during  the  time  of  the  burning 
of  the  business  portion  of  their  town. 

A  line  of  stages  runs  from  Yreka  to  Fort  Jones, 
a  few  miles  distant.  The  fort  is  abandoned  by 
the  troops ;  it  was  now  occupied  by  an  aged  Baptist 
minister  and  his  family,  to  prevent  any  one  from  cut 
ting  the  timber  on  the  reservation  ;  but  the  old  man, 
I  was  told,  raises  some  fine  crops  there.  Returning 
from  the  fort  to  Yreka,  the  stage  stopped  at  a  pub 
lic  house,  to  hitch  to  the  stage  some  wild  mustangs, 
for  the  purpose  of  breaking  them  on  the  road,  in 
order  that  they  may  be  used  for  staging.  An 
invalid  from  Callahan's  Ranch  and  myself  were  about 
to  enter  the  coach,  when  a  man  said  to  us,  "  You  had 
better  remain  until  to-morrow,  for  I  must  assist  the 
driver  in  cudgeling  those  wild  horses."  "  I  have  no 
objection  to  your  business,  if  it  is  to  whip  mustangs, 
that  is  none  of  my  affair,  but  I  shall  go,"  and  I 
entered  the  stage  with  fifteen  Chinamen  outside,  and 
the  remainder  inside.  Just  as  I  was  seated,  the 
young  man  alluded  to  gave  me  a  glance,  remarking  : 
"  I  know  you,  I  met  you  some  years  since,  when  you 
resided  at  Fort  Tejon.  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  have 


"TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.        89 

been  employed  at  this  business  so  long  a  time,  I  feel 
I  am  quite  a  wild  horse  myself." 

The  next  morning  the  stage  coach  left  for  Oregon. 
Our  passengers  were  three  gentlemen  and  a  little 
boy,  en  route  for  Portland.  "  Well,"  said  the  stout 
gentleman,  who  was  seated  beside  me  on  the  back 
seat,  "  only  one  lady  passenger,  I  am  informed  at 
the  hotel." 

"  You  are  traveling  for  the  purpose  of  selling  your 
books  ?  "  "  Yes."  (I  happened  to  have  a  copy  in  my 
lunch  basket.)  He  looked  at  it,  asked  me  the  price. 
I  replied  "  One  dollar."  Said  he  :  "It  certainly 
will  be  to  your  interest  to  sell  me  one  for  half  price, 
as  my  home  is  in  Portland  ;  when  I  get  there,  I  will 
praise  the  book."  He  paid  me  fifty  cents,  and  then, 
looking  through  its  pages,  he  happened  to  notice  a 
line  written  thus  "  Pray  deliver  me  from  women  poli 
ticians."  "  Here,"  said  he,  "  I  am  for  women's 
rights,  I  will  return  you  the  book,  if  you  will  give 
me  back  twenty-five  cents,"  and  he  screamed  at  the 
highest  pitch  of  his  voice  :  "  How  can  this  be  ?  Can  it 
be  true,  that  a  woman  who  has  written  a  book  does 
not  believe  in  women's  rights  ?"  He  still  kept  scream 
ing,  "  Hurrah  for  women's  rights !  " 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  I,  "  the  birds,  you  have  so 
frightened  by  your  pleading  in  such  vigorous  lan 
guage,  they  have  ceased  their  warbling  ;  but  there  is 
something  certainly  behind  the  scenes,  why  you  are 
so  much  for  women's  franchise  ?  it  must  be  you  are  an 
office  seeker,  and  if  the  truth  is  known,  you  have 
been  to  Washington  for  that  very  purpose."  "  Ah," 


90       TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

said  he,  "  I  am  puzzled  to  know  that  a  lady,  like  you, 
disapproves  of  your  sex  wearing  the  breeches,"  and 
looking  up  I  saw  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  he  was 
casting  side  glances  to  a  passenger  who  sat  opposite. 

We  had  arrived  at  the  station,  where  we  changed 
horses,  and  my  friend,  the  stout  gentleman  got  out. 
I  asked  the  young  gentleman  who  sat  opposite,  if  he 
was  acquainted  with  our  strong  patron  of  woman's 
suffrage,  "  Strange  to  say,"  said  he  "his  name  is 
Smith,  so  is  mine.  We  are  not  related,  but  you 
have  guessed  the  truth  ;  he  is  a  politician,  and  on  his 
return  to  Portland  from  Washington,  and  the  repre 
sentative  of  the  republican  party.  He  has  been  to 
France  to  learn  French,  and  for  the  two  years  past, 
studying  law  in  Washington,  D.  C." 

"  All  aboard !  "  said  the  driver,  and  quickly  the 
passengers  were  seated.  We  were  very  soon  at  the 
pretty  village  of  Ashland.  I  left  the  coach — bade 
my  traveling  friends  good-by,  wishing  them  a  safe 
journey  to  Portland,  they  wishing  me  much  success. 

The  hotel  was  owned  and  kept  by  Mr.  Hough,  a 
German,  and  the  price  of  board  moderate.  Ashland 
is  situated  some  miles  beyond  the  line  which  divides 
California  and  Oregon.  I  remained  a  few  days, 
succeeded  in  selling  my  books,  and  found  some  ready 
to  help  me  more  than  I  had  bargained  for.  The 
good  landlord  said  to  a  gentleman  one  morning,  "  As 
you  are  a  carpenter,  do  mend  the  corner  of  this 
lady's  box;  you  see  it  is  light  redwood,  and  she 
makes  so  many  changes  on  the  road,  the  road  is  so 
rough."  "  All  right,"  said  the  stranger.  Returning 


TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.        91 

to  the  hotel,  lo  and  behold,  the  box  was  not  mended, 
but  another  of  strong  white  wood,  planed  and  sand 
papered  inside  and  out,  brass  hinges  on  the  lid, 
screws  and  screw  driver.  "  Why !  "  said  I  to  the 
landlord,  "  He  is  no  better  than  a  Christian." 

The  next  morning  I  left  for  Roseburg.  This  is  a 
charming  and  thriving  town  in  the  Umpqua  Valley, 
of  about  five  hundred  inhabitants ;  it  is  on  the  banks 
of  the  Umpqua  river,  and  the  county  seat  of  Doug 
las  County,  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  south  of 
Salem,  and  on  the  overland  road  from  Portland  to 
Sacramento.  It  has  two  newspapers,  four  churches, 
good  public  and  private  schools,  etc. 

Douglas  is  an  agricultural  and  stock-raising 
county.  There  is  an  abundance  of  good  timber  land, 
the  water  is  excellent,  the  climate  pleasant,  and  the 
scenery  varied  and  beautiful.  I  tarried  here  ten 
_  days,  sold  some  books,  and  left  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning's  stage  for  Jacksonville,  the  county  seat  of 
Jackson  County,  a  flourishing  town  in  southern 
Oregon.  It  is  located  on  the  western  side  of  the 
celebrated  Rogue  River  Valley,  on  the  Portland  and 
Sacramento  stage  road,  distant  two  hundred  and 
ninety-five  miles  from  Portland,  and  three  hundred 
and  forty  miles  from  Sacramento. 

Jacksonville  contains  between  six  and  seven  hun 
dred  inhabitants.  It  possesses  some  handsome  build 
ings  within  its  corporate  limits,  and  is  justly  celebrated 
for  the  salubrity  of  its  climate,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
surrounding  scenery. 

I  remained  in  Jacksonville  three  weeks,  did  well 


92       TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

at  canvassing,  and  left  for  the  pleasant  town  of 
Eugene  City,  the  county  seat  of  Lane  County,  which 
was  named  after  its  founder,  Eugene  Skinner.  It  is 
situated  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Willamette  River, 
and  is  distant  one  hundred  and  twenty-four  miles 
south  of  Portland.  This  point  is  considered  to  be 
the  head  of  steamboat  navigation  on  the  Willamette 
River,  and  steamboats  from  Portland  connect  with  it 
regularly  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year  ;  also  a 
daily  line  of  cars  on  the  Oregon  and  California  Rail 
road  connects  Eugene  with  Portland  and  all  the  in 
termediate  points  along  the  line.  This  village  now 
contains  a  population  of  nearly  1,200,  and  has  two 
public  schools  well  attended,  an  excellent  academy 
for  teaching  the  higher  branches  of  education,  six 
churches,  four  Sunday  schools,  one  Court  House, 
one  Masonic  and  one  Odd  Fellows  Lodge,  two  news 
papers,  numerous  stores,  shops,  etc.,  etc. 

I  must  here  allude  to  the  ladies  of  Eugene  City. 
I  found  them  always  ready  to  aid  me  without  asking 
the  second  time.  I  really  believe  I  called  on  each 
one  there.  There  are  some  three  or  four  good  hotels. 
I  boarded  at  the  one  kept  by  a  lady,  her  name  I  do 
not  remember. 

My  canvassing  done  in  Eugene  City,  I  took  the 
cars  for 

ALBANY, 

The   county   seat   of  Linn  County,  is  built  on   the 
east  bank  of  the  Willamette  River,  thirty-five  miles 


TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.        93 

above  Salem,  and  about  eighty  miles  south  of  Port 
land.  It  contains  a  population  of  over  2,000,  and 
has  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  neatest, 
healthiest,  and  one  of  the  most  prosperous  towns  in 
Oregon.  The  expenses  of  living  are  moderate.  Its 
pleasant  location,  and  unlimited  water  power,  com 
bine  to  make  it  one  of  the  most  promising  settlements 
in  the  State.  Its  schools  are  of  a  high  character. 
There  are  several  houses  of  worship,  and  each  suc 
ceeding  year  adds  to  its  population,  importance,  and 
wealth. 

Among  the  industries  in  successful  operation  are 
two  of  the  finest  grist  mills  in  the  State  (of  which 
Abany  is  the  granary)  one  running  by  water,  the 
other  by  steam ;  and  many  factories,  stores,  hotels. 
Two  weekly  newspapers  are  published  in  the  city. 
I  stayed  a  fortnight  in  Albany.  Success  here  as 
elswhere-.  The  hotels  are  well  supplied  with  good 
eatables,  prices  are  not  extravagant.  The  coach  at 
the  door  to  convey  passengers  to  the  cars,  so  I  am 
away  for 

SALEM, 

The  county  seat  of  Marion  County,  and  the  cap 
ital  of  Oregon,  is  advantageously  situated  on  a  gentle 
slope  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Willamette  River,  at 
a  point  navigable  for  steamers  at  all  times  of  the 
the  year,  and  distant  fifty  miles  southwest  from 
Portland,  and  sixty-two  miles  from  the  Columbia 
River.  It  is  also  on  the  line  of  the  Oregon  and  Cal- 


94        TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGOX. 

ifornia  Railroad.  Salem  is  a  city 'of  large  blocks  and 
broad  streets,  contains  5,000  inhabitants,  and  has  more 
churches,  in  proportion  to  the  population,  than  any 
other  city  on  the  Pacific  Coast.  There  are  five 
public  schools,  partly  supported  by  State  and  direct 
taxation,  and  several  private  educational  establish 
ments.  The  Willamette  University,  located  at 
Salem,  is  an  elegant  brick  structure,  erected  a  cost 
of  $30,000,  and  ranks  among  the  best  educational 
institutions  on  the  coast.  The  Roman  Catholics  also 
have  a  Sisters'  school,  and  an  academy  of  some 
standing.  Every  kind  of  manufactures  flourish,  and 
asylums,  which  are  too  numerous  to  mention.  I  was 
here  ten  days,  sold  some  books,  and  left  for  the  city 
of  Portland. 

PORTLAND 

Is  a  port  of  entry,  and  the  county  seat  of  Mult- 
nomah  County,  which,  although  the  smallest  in  area, 
is  the  wealthiest  county  in  the  State.  The  city  is 
beautifully  located  on  the  west  bank  of  the  ^'illa- 
mette  River,  twelve  miles  above  its  confluence  with 
the  Columbia,  and  is  built  upon  a  plateau  which  grad 
ually  increases  in  hight  as  it  recedes  from  the  river, 
thus  aiFo'rding  a  magnificent  view  from  the  hills  which 
skirt  the  western  limits  of  the  city,  from  whence 
may  be  discerned  the  majestic  peaks  of  Mount  Hood, 
St.  Helens,  and  Rainier,  together  with  the  entire 
snow-capped  region  of  the  Cascade  Range  of  moun 
tains,  which  divide  Eastern  from  Western  Oregon. 


TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.        95 

Looking  directly  down  from  Robinson's  Hill,  the  city 
is  seen  to  best  advantage — its  numerous  churches, 
school  houses,  and  public  buildings,  whose  domes  and 
spires  rise  far  above  the  surroumding  dwellings.  Fur 
ther  eastward  stands  the  prosperous  town  of  East 
Portland,  whose  streets  resound  with  the  shrill  whis 
tle  of  the  locomotive ;  whilst  the  placid  waters  of  the 
Willamette  give  a  silvery  charm  to  the  landscape, 
that  must  be  seen  in  order  to  be  appreciated.  I 
would  advise  strangers  visiting  Portland  to  be  cau 
tious  of  the  water ;  I  give  this  advice  simply  because 
I  know  by  experience,  to  drink  the  water  is  unsafe  to 
any  one,  after  traveling  on  the  mountains  of  Oregon, 
where  the  water  is  so  pure.  Take  ice;  so  my  pnysi- 
cian  prescribed.  Unfortunately  for  the  City  of 
Portland,  the  water  is  unfit  to  drink  ;  more  particular 
ly  by  strangers  visiting  there  after  crossing  the  moun 
tains  of  Oregon,  who  are  frequently  troubled  with  this 
terrible  disease,  chills  and  fever.  Therefore  I  ad 
vise  all  travelers  to  Portland,  if  they  suffer  from 
chills  and  fever,  to  take  steamer  for  Astoria,  one  of 
the  oldest  ports  on  the  Northern  Coast,  and  certainly 
one  of  the  most  healthy.  I  can  say  with  truth,  one 
of  the  best  hotels  on  that  coast  is  the  Arizona,  which 
has  one  of  the  most  gentlemanly  landlords. 

Adieu,  Portland,  and  friends  who  will  ever  be  re 
membered. 

WASHINGTON  TERRITORY. 

Olympia,  the  county  seat  of  Thurston  County,  and 
the  capital  of  Washington  Territory,  is  the  largest 


96        TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

town  on  Puget  Sound.  It  is  beautifully  situated  at 
the  head  of  that  great  inland  sea,  and  is  about  one 
hundred  miles  east  of  the  sea  coast,  and  two  hundred 
southeast  from  the  entrance  to  the  Straits  of  Fuca. 
There  are  five  weekly,  and  two  daily  newspapers. 
The  families  of  many  of  the  business  men  of  Olym- 
pia  reside  in  a  suburb  called  Swanton,  situated 
across  an  arm  of  the  bay.  Tumwater,  another  sub 
urb  of  the  town,  nearly  two  miles  south  of  Olympia, 
is  a  manufacturing  settlement,  containing  a  saw  mill, 
flour  mill,  tannery,  chair  factory,  pail  factory,  sash 
and  door  factory,  etc.,  and  has  about  two  hundred 
inhabitants.  I  left  this  pleasant  village,  and  the  agree 
able  people  of  Olympia,  disposing  of  many  books 
among  them,  after  a  sojourn  of  two  weeks,  and  em 
barked  at  nine  o'clock  at  night,  on  the  steamer 
North  Pacific,  touching  at  all  the  way  ports  on  the 
sound,  which  are  named  Steilacoom,  Tacoma,  and 
Seattle. 

SEATTLE, 

The  county  seat  of  King  County,  is  situated  on 
the  eastern  shore  of  Puget  Sound,  sixty  miles  north 
west  of  Olympia.  The  population  is  now  over  1,000. 
Every  dwelling  house,  and  every  available  place  of 
business  is  occupied.  There  are  in  the  town  about 
twenty-five  general  stores,  some  of  them  doing  business 
on  an  extensive  scale  ;  a  large  steam  saw  mill,  and 
two  printing  offices  publishing  weekly  papers. 

The  farming  country  bordering  the  shores  of  the 


TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.       97 

Sound  is  nearly  all  settled,  for  a  distance  of  thirty 
miles,  but  there  is  a  large  extent  of  the  finest  agri 
cultural  lands  still  unoccupied .  The  object  of  the 
early  settlers,  was  to  secure  farms  having  water 
communication  with  Seattle,  and  thus  it  happens, 
that  some  of  the  most  valuable  agricultural  land 
still  remains  open  for  settlement.  I  bade  adieu  to 
friends  at  Seattle,  where  I  found  a  people  ready  and 
willing  to  patronize  one  who  had  wandered  so  far 
away. 

VANCOUVER, 

The  county  seat  of  Clarke  County,  stands  on 
a  gentle  rise,  beautifully  situated  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Columbia  River,  one  hundred  miles  from 
its  mouth,  and  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  south 
of  Olympia.  It  is  at  the  junction  of  the  beautiful 
valleys  of  the  Columbia  and  Willamette,  on  the 
route  of  the  North  Pacific  Railroad,  and  in  full  view 
of  the  coast  and  Cascade  Mountains.  The  river  at 
this  point  is  more  than  a  mile  wide.  It  was  on  ac 
count  of  its  eligible  position,  that  the  site  of  Vancou 
ver  was  selected  in  1824,  by  the  Hudson  Bay  Com 
pany,  for  their  entrepot  and  chief  factory  west  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  it  continued  to  be  their 
leading  trading  port  until  1860,  when  their  term  of 
occupation  expired.  It  became  a  military  post  in 
1849,  and  General  Grant  was  at  one  time  stationed 
there  as  Quartermaster.  The  town  contains  several 
churches,  some  excellent  schools,  a  United  States 

7 


98       TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

garrison,  a  branch  of  the  ordnance  department,  a 
land  office,  and  printing  office  publishing  a  weekly 
newspaper.  Vancouver  has  a  population  of  about 
nine  hundred,  and  is  connected  by  regular  daily 
steamer  with  Portland.  The  winters  are  mild,  and 
flowers  bloom  in  the  open  air  all  the  year  round. 
I  returned  to  Olympia  to  take  the  steamer  for  Vic 
toria. 

BRITISH    COLUMBIA. 

Victoria,  the  capital  of  British  Columbia,  incor 
porated  by  Royal  Charter,  is  a  well-laid-out  town, 
containing  3,000  inhabitants.  It  is  beautifully  situ 
ated  on  the  southern  extremity  of  Vancouver  Island, 
opposite  the  mouth  of  Puget  Sound.  To  vessels 
drawing  fifteen  feet  of  water,  the  harbor  of  Victoria 
is  easy  of  access  at  all  times,  but  larger  vessels  re 
sort  to  the  adjacent  harbor  of  Esquimalt,  the  British 
naval  station  three  miles  distant,  which  can  be  en 
tered  by  the  largest  ships  at  all  seasons  of  the  year. 
The  climate  is  very  genial,  and  the  suburbs  afford 
delightful  drives  on  fine  roads  with  beautiful  scenery 
in  every  direction. 

The  city  contains  the  Government  buildings,  the 
residence  of  the  Governor,  numerous  fine  edifices, 
substantial  wharves,  etc.  It  has  three  Episcopal, 
two  Catholic,  one  Presbyterian,  and  one  Methodist 
church.  There  are  two  daily  papers.  A  consider 
able  business  is  carried  on  with  Portland,  Oregon, 
by  sailing  vessels  and  steamers;  and  also  with 


TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.        99 

Washington  Territory,  a  steam  line  trading  regularly 
between  the  principal  ports  on  Puget  Sound  and 
Victoria.  I  was  anxious  to  visit  the  coal  mine  of 
Nanaimo ;  the  steamer  left  her  wharf  at  seven  in 
the  morning.  Accordingly,  I  arose  earlier  than  usual 
to  go  on  board,  but  had  I  known  the  steward  had 
prepared  a  berth,  expecting  me  on  board  that  night, 
I  surely  should  have  accepted  the  privilege.  The 
air  at  seven  in  the  winter  season  here  is  extremely 
cold,  with  not  the  least  appearance  of  sunrise.  The 
passage  was  delightful.  On  both  sides  of  the  river 
rose  tall  fir  trees,  which  seen  in  the  distance,  and  their 
reflection  in  that  most  beautiful  silent  river,  formed  a 
kaleidoscope  of  rare  beauty.  The  mines  are  owned 
by  parties  in  England.  I  was  told  their  best  market 
for  shipment  is  San  Francisco.  There  are  farms 
beyond  and  around  Nanaimo ;  but  as  I  had  taken 
my  passage  on  the  steamer  Idaho,  for  home,  I 
concluded  two  days  would  suffice  ;  therefore,  I  went 
on  board  the  night  previous  to  the  sailing  of  steamer. 
Our  passengers  consisted  of  the  Judge  of  the  Su 
preme  Court,  and  a  member  of  Parliament  of  Her 
Majesty's  dominions,  several  colored  gentlemen,  and 
Indians.  The  English,  I  am  compelled  to  write,  are 
the  blackest  Republicans  I  have  ever  traveled  in 
company  with ;  the  meal  was  announced  by  the 
kind  mulatto  steward.  Said  he,  Ladies  and  gentle 
men,  please  take  your  seats  at  the  table.  I  was  the 
only  white  woman ;  the  other  was  a  colored  one  ;  but 
what  was  singular  for  my  eyes  to  witness,  there  was 
the  Judge  at  the  head ;  next  to  him  sat  three  In- 


100       TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

dians,  two  black  men,  the  member  of  Parlia 
ment,  the  colored  woman,  and  myself.  At  first  I 
thought  of  waiting  to  dine  at  the  second  table,  but 
as  I  am  considered  a  law-abiding  citizen  at  home, 
why  should  I  act  contrary  to  the  law  established  in 
our  mother  country.  "  Well,"  thought  I,  "  here  is 
law  carried  out,  and  no  mistake." 

Our  little  steamer  arrived  at  Victoria  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  when  the  morrow  came,  I 
entered  the  hack,  and  left  the  Colonial,  (the  most 
elegant,  and  best  kept  hotel  in  Victoria)  and  drove 
to  the  steamer's  wharf;  her  anchor  drawn,  her  gun 
is  fired,  and  we  are  soon  on  the  ocean  for  home. 
The  second  night  the  wind  blew  a  gale,  we  were 
driven  by  fierce  winds  eight  miles  toward  Victoria. 
The  engine,  however,  was  still  working.  I  was  terri 
bly  frightened ;  the  steamer  rolled  so,  and  she 
would  make  such  plunges,  it  seemed  to  me  all  would 
then  and  there  find  a  tomb  in  the  wild  waters.  But 
the  next  morning  the  sea  was  becalmed,  so  we  could 
walk  her  deck.  However,  we  had  a  quick  passage, 
two  and  a  quarter  days,  all  happy  to  arrive  in  San 
Francisco. 


Among  the  medical  fraternity  in  this  State,  I  can 
not  but  tender  my  sincere  acknowledgments  to 
Doctor  Toland. 

His  acts  of  friendliness  have  not  been  conferred  on 
myself  alone,  who  stood  in  great  need  of  them ;  but 
upon  many  others,  who  perhaps  will  never  in  this 


TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.       101 

public  manner  be  able  to  attest  their  gratitude. 
He  has  won  a  deservedly  high  reputation  in  his  pro 
fession,  but  not  escaped  the  shafts  of  envy  and  mis 
representation,  which  too  often  follow  in  the  wake  of 
genuine  merit. 

That  he  has  been  a  public,  as  well  as  a  private 
benefactor,  is  sufficiently  attested  by  his  magnificent 
gift  to  the  State  University,  of  the  Toland  Medical 
College. 

That  institution,  under  his  supervision,  has  earned 
a  world-wide  reputation — and  has  been  considered 
the  best  school  in  the  State  for  obtaining  a  thorough 
medical  education.  Now  that  it  has  through  his 
generosity  become  a  part  and  parcel  of  the  State  Uni 
versity,  it  will  continue  to  prove  of  no  inconsiderable 
advantage  to  the  Alumni  of  the  latter  institution, 
who  desire  to  secure  a  thorough  medical  education. 
Doctor  Toland  is  one  of  the  early  pioneers,  and  his 
success  has  been  due  as  much  to  energy  and  atten 
tion  to  his  business,  as  to  the  possession  of  talent 
and  medical  accomplishments.  Some  of  the  cures 
which  he  has  effected  have  been  worthy  of  the  most 
accomplished  physicians  of  Europe. 

I  know  that  he  will  take  exception  to  this  manner 
of  referring  to  him,  and  that  he  would  prefer  that  his 
good  deeds  and  merits  should  be  appreciated  in 
silence,  without  any  public  manifestation  of  them 
whatever ;  but  I  cannot  let  this  opportunity  pass, 
however  much  it  may  prove  distasteful  to  him, 
without  adding  this  public  tribute  to  his  worth. 

There  is  an  esprit  du  corps  in  the  medical  profes- 


102       TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

sion  which  holds  it  steadfastly  to  a  certain  line  of 
conduct,  and  especially  to  a  quiet,  unobstrusive  con 
duct,  when  it  relates  to  their  merits  or  their  abilities ; 
and  they  are  indeed  so  sensitive  in  this  respect,  that 
they  will  resent  the  commendation  of  friends  if  pub 
licly  made,  lest  others  might  imagine  that  it  was  a 
prearranged  programme  to  earn  undeserved  praise. 
The  Doctor,  I  trust,  will  pardon  me  for  this  allusion, 
remembering  that,  considering  his  great  kindness,  I 
could  do  or  say  nothing  less.  He  has  achieved  a 
proud  and  independent  position,  and  is  above  the 
need  of  anything  like  adulation,  and  these  remarks 
certainly  can  call  for  no  adverse  criticism. 

Another  gentleman,  occupying  a  high  and  respon 
sible  position  in  this  State,  and  to  whom  I  am  under 
some  obligations,  will  give  me  an  opportunity  of  mak 
ing  a  few  remarks,  not  so  much,  perhaps,  with  refer 
ence  to  himself,  as  to  the  institution  over  which  he 
presides.  I  refer  to  Dr.  Shurtleff  and  the  State  In 
sane  Asylum. 

I  have  had  occasion,  very  frequently,  to  make 
visits  to  the  home  of  the  Insane,  and  to  scrutinize 
its  various  departments,  and  to  consider  the  means 
of  discipline  there  employed  in  the  cure  and  restor 
ation  of  patients  to  their  normal  condition  of  health  ; 
and  I  must  be  permitted  to  say,  that  having  had 
some  degree  of  experience  with  respects  to  the  means 
and  manner  best  adapted  to  the  treatment  of  the 
insane,  that  the  Asylum  now  conducted  in  Stockton, 
under  the  supervision  of  Dr.  Shurtleff,  may  favorably 
compare  with  any  like  institution  in  America. 


TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON.      103 

«. 

Perhaps  no  other  community  in  the  world,  its  pop 
ulation  being  taken  in  consideration,  presents  so 
many  different  phases,  as  respects  its  passions,  vicis 
situdes,  and  life  mutations,  as  that  found  in  this 
State.  It  follows,  as  a  consequence,  that  insanity 
itself,  so  far  as  it  exists  here,  presents  aspects  and 
conditions  hardly  to  be  found  elsewhere,  and  that  a 
larger  scope  is  offered  for  talent  in  its  treatment. 

That  Doctor  Shurtleff  has  proved  equal  to  all  the 
exigencies  of  his  position,  is  a  fact  fully  attested  by 
the  Press,  by  the  medical  faculty,  and  more  espec 
ially  by  those  who,  through  his  instrumentality, 
enjoy  the  society  of  friends  restored  to  reason,  who 
at  one  time  gave  every  indication  of  being  snatched 
forever  from  communion  with  them. 

Having  occupied  so  responsible  a  position  for  many 
years,  despite  the  mutations  of  political  parties,  it 
has  afforded  him  experience,  and  is  an  evidence  that 
he  will  continue  to  discharge  its  duties  for  many 
years  to  come,  both  to  his  own  satisfaction,  and  to 
that  of  the  people  of  the  State. 

While  upon  this  topic,  I  can  hardly  refrain  from 
referring  to  the  exhaustive  report  made  by  Dr. 
Wilkins,  with  reference  to  the  Insane ;  a  report 
founded  upon  an  examination  made  by  him  of  the 
various  prominent  institutions  established  in  Europe, 
for  the  government  of  this  unfortunate  class  of  peo 
ple.  I  hardly  believe,  that  in  any  other  work  extant 
upon  this  subject  can  be  found  more  useful  informa 
tion,  and  more  practical  hints,  calculated  to  prove  of 
lasting  benefit,  than  in  the  report  in  question.  Those 


104      TRAVELING  THROUGH  OREGON. 

> 

who  give  this  subject  their  attention,  although  it  may 
not  bring  them  fame  and  the  applafuse  of  the  multi 
tude,  will  nevertheless  enjoy  the  pleasing  satisfaction, 
in  their  own  minds,  of  having  proved  genuine  bene 
factors  of  the  human  race. 


:  k  >[ 


ew 

BY  MRS.  C.  M.  SAWYER. 


CHAPTER    I. 

'ORE  than  seventy  years  ago,  there  stood  on 
a  gentle  slope  of  one  of  the  rugged  hills  of 
New  England,  a  massive  stone  building,  curiously 
rambling  in  its  construction,  spacious  in  size,  and 
bearing  the  date  1668  deeply  cut  into  the  heavy 
block  surmounting  the  doorway.  Old  as  as  it  was, 
however,  it  was  externally  in  a  state  of  good  pres 
ervation.  Its  high  peaked  gables  and  broad  porches 
were,  though  moss-grown,  entire ;  and  its  long  nar 
row  windows,  just  two  panes  in  width,  still  boasted  a 
moderate  complement  of  panes,  albeit  they  were 
gray  and  thick  with  long  gathered  dust.  It  was  a 
deserted  house  ;  no  footsteps  resounded  upon  its  silent 
floors,  and  no  smoke  now  ascended  from  its  huge 
chimneys. 

Yet,  though  the  very  air  around  it  spoke  of  desola 
tion,  it  would  be  impossible  to  imagine  a  more  pictur 
esque  scene  than  that  which  surrounded  this  noble 
old  dwelling.  Rich  dark  hemlocks  and  mountain 


106  THE    WITCH, 

pines  lifted  their  tall  heads  high  up  the  hill-side  in 
its  rear ;  an  interminable  virgin  forest  stretched  far 
away  to  the  blue  horizon  in  its  front,  its  right  was 
flanked  by  a  large  irregular  field,  or  garden,  where, 
on  a  little  knoll  hard  by  the  dwelling,  its  gray  roof 
just  peering  above  the  tangled  weeds  and  briars, 
stood  an  old  crumbling  family  tomb,  the  last  long 
home  of  the  generations  who  once  tenanted  the  now 
silent  dwelling. 

On  the  left,  a  tolerably  clean  lawn  sloped  suddenly 
downward  to  a  deep  dell,  through  whose  narrow  bot 
tom  rushed  a  brawling  stream,  of  sufficient  capacity 
to  carry  a  mill — as  was  attested  by  the  crumbling 
ruins  still  overhanging  its  banks,  and  whose  ponder 
ous  wheel,  from  whose  dilapidated  floats  depended 
a  drapery  of  long,  green,  slimy  moss,  added  not  a 
little  to  the  beauty  of  the  dell.  It  added  to  its  lone 
liness,  too,  for 'its  desertion  and  inactivity  constrasted 
strangely  with  the  ever-restless  hurry  of  the  waters. 

Yet  ruined  as  they  were,  the  solitude  of  the  whole 
premises  seemed  unnatural  and  strange  :  like  that 
of  a  place  resting  under  a  curse.  And  perhaps  it 
was  'so.  Why  else  did  even  the  stranger,  around 
whom  the  twilight  settled  suddenly  down,  involun 
tarily  quicken  his  steps,  and  glance  furtively  behind 
him  as  he  passed  it  ?  Be  all  this  as  it  may,  it  was  a 
marked  spot ;  for  it  was  believed  to  have  been  the 
theater  of  unholy  deeds,  and  for  leagues  around  bore 
the  name  of  the  "  Haunted  House." 

x 

About  a  mile  from  this  place,  and  on  the  same 
beautifully  winding  thoroughfare,  stood  a  small  log 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  107 

cabin,  of  the  simplest  and  neatest  character.  Un 
like  most  dwellings  of  so  rude  a  construction,  its  ex 
terior  was  picturesque,  and  even  elegant ;  for  it  was 
almost  completely  embowered  in  a  luxuriant  drapery 
of  woodbine  and  bitter-sweet,  their  scarlet  and  pur 
ple  berries  contrasting  gaily  with  the  rich  green  of 
their  heavy  foliage.  A  little  sign  swinging  at  the  door, 
and  which  gave  humble  notice  of  rest  and  refresh 
ment  to  be  found  within,  sufficiently  indicated  the 
calling  of  its  occupants. 

It  was  occupied  by  a  disabled  revolutionary  sol 
dier,  of  the  name  of  Boyle.  He  had  gone  forth  a 
prosperous  and  hale  young  man,  and  after  faithfully 
serving  his  country  through  more  than  three  quarters 
of  the  war,  maimed  and  broken  down  by  long  suffer- 
ing  and  wounds,  had  received  an  honorable  discharge, 
and  the  full  amount  of  his  wages  in  Continental  cur 
rency — one  hundred  dollars  of  which  hardly  sufficed 
for  the  purchase  of  a  single  bushel  of  corn. 

Few  friends  had  he  to  welcome  him  back  to  a 
home  that,  during  his  absence,  had  passed  into  the 
hands  of  strangers.  Yet,  although  his  case  was 
too  common  a  one  in  those  hard  days  of  trial  to  win 
from  most  persons  more  than  a  passing  expression  of 
pity,  there  were  still  some  who  contended  that  his 
country  was  ungrateful,  and  that  though  herself 
poor,  she  was  still  able  to  do  something  for  those 
who  had  given  all  but  their  bare  lives  for  her.  Boyle, 
however,  was  of  a  different  opinion,  and  in  spite  of 
premature  old  age,  and  the  frowns  of  fortune,  reso 
lutely  maintained  a  cheerful  front,  and  a  good  humor 


108  THE   WITCH, 

perfectly  unexampled.  He  possessed  a  few  acres  of 
land,  and  on  this  he  determined  to  begin  life  anew. 
By  the  aid  of  the  few  widely  scattered  inhabitants 
of  the  region,  a  neat  cabin  was  in  a  short  time  piled 
together,  and  furnished  with  the  few  rustic  articles 
then  considered  necessary.  A  little  sign-post  hung  at 
the  door,  and  a  nice  young  girl,  hardy,  loving,  and 
good-humored,  to  whom  he  was  in  earlier  days  en 
gaged,  offered  to  become  his  wife,  and,  after  many 
objections  on  his  part,  was  gratefully  accepted. 

Let  no  one  in  this  deem  the  simple-hearted  girl 
unmaidenly.  Had  her  lover  been  as  he  was  ere  war 
so  sadly  mutilated  him,  the  world  would  not  have 
tempted  her  to  the  step ;  but  poor  wreck  as  he  had 
become,  she  well  knew  he  would  never  seek  to  per 
suade  her  to  unite  her  fate  with  his,  and  she  there 
fore  nobly  took  the  matter  into  her  own  hands  ;  and 
it  is  a  sufficient  proof  of  the  happiness  they  shared, 
that  after  six  years'  union,  at  the  period  of  which 
we  now  write,  she  had  never  yet  wearied  of  his  tales 
of  the  war,  but  heard  them  for  the  hundredth  time 
as  kindly  as  at  first,  loving  him  all  the  better  for  his 
misfortunes. 

His  days  thus  flowed  on  in  a  peaceful  serenity 
seldom  accompanying  the  closing  years  of  men  whose 
trade  has  been  war.  Eminently  social  in  his  dispo 
sition,  his  contentment  as  well  as  his  purse  was  eked 
out  by  the  chance  visitors,  generally  of  the  humblest 
order,  who  shared  the  hospitalities  of  his  cabin. 

One  evening,  as  Boyle  sat  smoking  his  pipe  in  his 
doorway,  watching  the  gorgeous  sunset,  whose  gold- 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE.  109 

en  sheen  lay  over  all  the  forest,  and  waiting  for  his 
wife,  who  early  in  the  morning  had  gone  to  Marl- 
wood — the  nearest  village,  some  six  miles  off — to 
make  some  little  purchases  for  the  household,  an  old 
man  with  a  long  gray  beard,  a  knotted  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  a  knapsack  at  his  back,  came  slowly  toil 
ing  up  the  road.  He  was  apparently  a  stranger, 
for  he  several  times  stood  still  to  gaze  around  him, 
as  if  seeing  the  neighborhood  for  the  the  first  time. 
At  length,  walking  directly  to  the  door  of  the  little 
inn,  he  inquired  if  he  could  have  entertainment  for 
the  night. 

"My  house  is  open  to  all  honest  people,"  replied 
the  old  soldier,  making  room  for  the  stranger  to  en 
ter,  "  and  if  you  can  content  yourself  with  such 
food  as  sinners  live  on,  you  are  welcome  to  stay." 
The  traveler  made  no  reply,  but  silently  taking  off 
his  hat,  and  laying  aside  his  knapsack,  sat  down, 
and  asked  for  a  drink  of  water. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  have  a  mug  of  cider?  "  sug 
gested  Boyle,  by  way  of  opening  a  conversation. 
But  the  traveler  silently  shook  his  head,  looking 
withal  so  pale  and  reserved  as  quite  to  dishearten 
the  worthy  host  in  his  design  of  drawing  him  out. 

"  Are  you  all  alone  in  this  neighborhood  ?  "  he  at 
length  inquired. 

"  Except  the  beasts  and  birds  of  the  woods,  I 
have  no  nearer  neighbors  than  the  ghosts  of  the 
haunted  house,"  replied  Boyle,  quite  enlivened  by 
even  this  dubious  subject. 

The  stranger  stared  him  in  the  face — "  What  do 
you  mean  ? " 


110  THE   WITCH, 

"  Oh,  nothing !  only  they  say  the  old  stone  house, 
above  here  a  little  way,  is  haunted." 

"  What  reason  have  they  for  thinking  so  ?  "  in 
quired  the  stranger,  with  some  interest. 

"  Well,  they  do  say  that  strange  noises  are  heard 
in  the  empty  old  chambers,  and  I  can  affirm  that 
strange  sights  are  seen  there,  for  I  have  seen  them 
myself  three  times  within  the  week,  while  I  have 
been  hunting  for  my  old  cow,  who  has  taken  a  strange 
fancy  to  straying  off  in  that  dirfection  ;  and  yet  no  one 
has  lived  there  since  the  old  'Squire  died,  which  is 
seventeen  years  come  next  Christmas.  Nobody  could 
stay  there  after  that,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Why  not." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you ;  though  it  is  a  story  people 
don't  think  it  best  to  talk  much  about.  You  see 
old  'Squire  Beaumont  had  only  one  child,  a  daugh 
ter  named  Alice,  and  she  was  beautiful  and  good, 
only  a  bit  spoiled  by  indulgence,  and  a  little  wilful 
sometimes,  as  was  natural  with  all  the  petting  she 
got.  Her  mother  had  died  when  she  was  just  a 
babe,  or,  you  see,  she  might  have  been  better  gov 
erned.  Howbeit,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there ; 
but  of  course,  with  all  his  wealth  and  her  beauty, 
her  father  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  look  pretty 
high  for  her.  And  so  he  had — but  bless  you,  where 
was  he  to  look  ?  There  was  ne'er  a  young  man  in 
all  the  region  that  he  would  have  thought  good 
enough  for  her. 

"  It  happened  one  summer  that  a  foreign  painter, 
that  they  called  an  artist,  came  wandering  up 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  Ill 

into  these  parts  to  make  pictures  of  the  neighbor 
hood.  His  name  was  Hubert  Delisle.  He  was  a 
man  of  middle  age,  but  handsome  to  look  at,  and 
dressed  like  a  bird.  The  old  'Squire  soon  got  ac 
quainted  with  him,  for  he  had  a  winning  way,  and 
invited  him  to  his  house.  It  was  not  long,  you  may 
be  sure,  before  a  great  love  sprung  up  between  the 
artist  and  his  daughter,  and  they  made  it  up  be 
tween  them  that  they  would  be  married.  But,  Lord  ! 
you  should  have  seen  what  a  rage  the  old  'Squire 
was  in  when  they  broached  the  subject  to  him.  He 
ordered  the  artist  out  of  the  house,  and  shut  hie 
daughter  up  in  her  chamber.  But  you  see  Alice 
had  a  bit  of  her  father's  spirit,  and  so,  in  spite  of  im 
prisonment,  she  never  would  give  the  promise  he  re 
quired,  to  have  no  more  to  say  to  him.  After  a  few 
days,  however,  the  artist  disappeared  from  the  neigh 
borhood,  and  then  the  old  man  let  his  daughter 
out.  Weeks  went  by,  and  he  did  not  appear  again, 
and  her  father  thought,  to  be  sure,  he  had  left  the 
country  ;  but  as  sure  as  I  live,  I  saw  him  myself 
late  one  moonlight  evening  going  into  that  house 
with  another  man,  dressed  in  a  long  black  gown. 
Pretty  soon,  I  saw  a  light  in  Alice's  window,  and 
different  shadows  passing  before  it.  I  was  puzzled, 
you  may  depend,  for  I  never  saw  him  again,  though 
I  have  no  doubt  she  did ;  but  I  always  thought  they 
were  married  that  night." 

"  What  made  you  think  so  ? "  inquired  the 
stranger,  with  a  startling  kind  of  earnestness. 

"  Because  by  and  by  a  change  came  over  Alice — 


112  THE   WITCH, 

she  grew  ill,  and  shut  herself  up,  and  whispers  went 
abroad  against  her  good  name. 

"  Her  father,  who  before  was  a  tyrant,  became 
a  savage,  and  God  only  knows  all  that  poor  girl  suf 
fered.  He  dismissed  all  his  servants  except  one 
old  crone,  as  bad  as  himself,  and  there  the  poor  thing 
was. 

"  I  was  sometimes  hired  to  work  in  the  garden,  for 
you  see  I  was  a  stout  young  man  then,  and  I  often 
heard  stifled  screams  in  the  house,  and  it  was  my 
belief  the  old  tyrant  horsewhipped  her.  At  length 
all  came  out. 

"  One  day,  after  more  dreadful  screams  than  com 
mon,  and  just  as  I  was  throwing  down  my  hoe  determ 
ined  to  face  the  lion  in  the  den,  and  find  out  what 
the  matter  was,  the  old  man  came  out,  looking  savage 
and  frightened,  and  told  me  to  go  for  the  doctor. 
I  jumped  on  the  old  horse,  and  went  as  fast  as  I 
could ;  but  it  was  ten  miles  to  where  he  lived,  and  the 
roads  none  of  the  best,  and  before  the  doctor  could  get 
there  a  baby  was  born  before  its  time,  and  the  mother 
was  dead." 

"  But  why,"  inquired  the  stranger,  pale  and  agit 
ated,  "  did  not  somebody  interfere  ?  " 

"  The  only  house  within  seven  or  eight  miles  was 
'Squire  Ellicott's,  and  that  was  about  half  way  to 
Marl  wood.  I  had  a  little  hut  in  the  woods  near 
this,  for  you  see  I  used  to  do  chopping  when  I  didn't 
get  work  at  either  'Squire  Beamont's  or  'Squire 
Ellicott's.  But  Lord,  if  there  had  been,  I  should 
like  to  see  the  man  who  would  have  dared  to  inter 
fere. 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE.  113 

"  I  believe  he  repented  sorely  of  his  cruelty  when  it 
was  too  late,  for  he  was  greatly  changed,  and  spent 
nearly  all  his  time  walking  about  his  garden,  pulling 
the  weeds  from  the  old  tomb  where  his  daughter  lay  ; 
and  it  was  not  long  before  he  was  quite  gray  and  old, 
and  had  the  look  of  a  man  who  was  struck  with  some 
terror.  And  he  was,  as  I  will  tell  you. 

"  For  some  time  after  the  birth  of  that  child,  it 
wailed  and  moaned  incessantly,  night  and  day — no 
body  could  quiet  it,  do  what  they  would.  At  length 
one  night  it  suddenly  stopped  its  wailing,  and  the 
old  woman,  who  lay  in  bed  near  the  cradle,  saw  the 
dead  mother  looking  just  as  she  did  when  she  was  alive, 
only  pale,  bending  over  the  cradle,  tucking  the  little 
creature  warmly  in,  and  rocking  and  singing  to  it  in  a 
sweet  low  voice,  until  it  fell  into  a  soft  quiet  sleep, 
and  did  not  awake  until  morning ;  and  so  every 
night  after  that,  at  just  the  same  hour,  she  always 
came  and  tucked  the  baby  in  and  soothed  it  to  sleep. 
The  old  'Squire  would  not  believe  anything  of  it  at 
first,  but  he  watched  for  the  apparition,  and  it  struck 
him  with  terror  that  turned  him  gray,  and  he  never  was 
himself  again.  But  the  child  throve  under  the  dead 
mother's  care  until  a  year  elapsed,  when  she  ceased 
her  visits — perhaps  not  allowed  to  take  care  of  her 
baby  any  longer. 

"  But  then  more  dreadful  visitations  took  place. 
Footsteps  were  heard  all  over  the  house,  and  screams 
just  like  those  I  used  to  hear  before  Alice  died ;  till 
by  and  by  the  old  man  gave  way  before  them,  and 
died,  I  do  believe  of  terror  and  remorse.  Then  the 


114  THE    WITCH, 

house  was  shut  up,  given  over  to  the  devil,  and  no 
one  has  lived  in  it  since." 

"  But  what  became  of  the  child  ?  "  inquired  the 
stranger,  who  had  listened  with  an  interest  so  in 
tense  as  to  call  great  drops  of  sweat  to  his  brow. 

"  Why,  the  old  Squire  left  her  with  the  property  ? 
in  the  care  of  a  friend — but  here  comes  my  wife." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  the  hostess^  a  pretty,  fair-faced  little  woman,  who 
greeted  her  husband  with  a  broad,  affectionate  smile, 
and  the  guests  with  a  modest  courtesy.  Placing  her 
basket  on  the  table,  she  drew  a  chair  by  her  husband, 
and  sat  down. 

"  I  hear  great  news  at  Marlwood !"  said  she, 
taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  gravely  smoothing  back 
her  soft  brown  hair. 

"What is  it?" 

"  Well,  they  say  messengers  were  all  day  coming 
and  going  yesterday,  from  Ellicott  House,  inquiring 
after  Alice,  who,  it  seems,  had  been  missing  three 
days,  before  any  of  the  servants  knew  it.  People 
think  she  is  lost  in  the  woods,  because  she  was  fond 
of  walking  there  to  gather  wild  flowers.  Everybody 
is  out  scouring  the  woods  in  all  directions,  blowing 
horns,  and  doing  their  best ;  and  Ellicott,  who  only 
got  home  yesterday,  is  raving  like  a  distracted  man, 
and  asking  why  they  did  not  send  in  search  of  her 
earlier ;  and  it  comes  out  that  he  was  engaged  to 
Alice,  while  Madam  Ellicott  meant,  and  everybody 
thought,  he  was  going  to  marry  her  daughter,  Clara 
Linmore." 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE,  115 

The  old  soldier  sat  with  his  hands  on  .his  knees, 
and  was  for  some  time  silent.  At  length  he  looked 
up  in  his  wife's  face. 

.  "  And  so  they  are  scouring  the  woods  for  her,  are 
they  ?  It  is  my  opinion  they  will  not  find  her  there. 
It  is  my  opinion  that  Madam  Ellicott  is  an  awful 
woman  ;  she  and  that  cousin  of  hers  are  a  pair  to 
cook  any  devil's  broth.  And  so  Madam  Ellicott 
meant  he  should  marry  her  daughter,  did  she  ?  Yes, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  she  means  so  still." 

All  further  remarks  of  the  angry  and  surprised  old 
soldier  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
a  new  and  singular  looking  guest.  It  was  a  tall, 
haggard  old  woman,  erect  as  an  arrow,  but  of  a 
swart,  lifeless  complexion,  that  was  strangely  and 
startlingly  contrasted,  as  well  by  the  long  white 
locks  that  trailed  over  her  face,  as  by  the  two  small 
jet-black,  glitttering  eyes,  that,  like  two  snakes  from 
their  lair,  peered  out  from  their  deep,  hollow  sockets. 
Her  dress  was  as  peculiar  as  her  face.  It  consisted 
of  a  long,  black  serge  dress,  scanty  and  coarse,  and 
secured  at  the  waist  by  a  thick,  woolen  girdle,  while 
enclosed  in  a  leathern  sheath  and  fancifully  wrought 
at  the  handle,  was  thrust  a  long,  heavy  knife.  A 
short,  but  full  gipsy-hooded  cloak,  of  a  rich  scarlet 
color,  enveloped  her  head  and  shoulders ;  and  a 
basket,  half  filled  with  roots  and  herbs,  hanging  at 
her  arm,  completed  her  costume. 

All,  even  the  traveler,  drew  shrinkingly  back  as 
she  entered,  and  the  hostess,  turning  pale,  gathered 
her  garments  closely  to  her  person,  to  avoid  the  pos 
sibility  of  contact. 


116  THE   WITCH, 

The  movement  was  not  unobserved  by  the  woman, 
and  it  seemed  to  intensify  the  unholy  and  malignant 
expression  of  her  countenance,  for  it  covered  it  with 
a  sneer. 

"  Give  me  a  mug  of  cider,"  said  she,  in  a  hollow, 
husky  voice,  at  the  same  time  darting  around  the  lit 
tle  circle  a  keen,  snaky  glance,  which  rested  long  on 
the  face  of  the  stranger. 

"  I  have  been  gathering  herbs  to  make  a  draught 
for  a  sick  dog,"  she  continued,  with  a  leer  that  was 
absolutely  frightful,  "  and  am  both  weary  and  thirsty." 

The  trembling  hostess  soon  appeared  with  a  small, 
brown  earthen  jug  of  cider,  which  the  old  woman 
emptied  at  a  draught,  when  laying  a  small  bit  of 
silver  on  the  table,  she  turned  to  go  away. 

"  Take  your  money  again,"  said  Boyle  anxiously, 
"  I  charge  nothing  for  cider." 

"  I  take  nothing  for  nothing,"  she  replied,  in  a 
surly  voice,  and  left  the  house,  turning,  as  she  did 
so,  another  piercing  look  at  the  face  of  the  traveler. 

"  Wife,  take  the  pitcher  and  the  money,  and  throw 
them  both  out  of  the  window." 

"  Not  I,"  exclaimed  the  little  woman,  shrinking 
back,  "  you'll  not  catch  me  touching  anything  that 
old  woman  has  handled." 

Without  another  word  Boyle  arose,  stumped  along 
to  the  hearth,  and  taking  the  tongs,  with  them  delib 
erately  picked  up  the  bit  of  silver,  dropped  it  into 
the  pitcher,  and  then  threw  both  into  the  door  yard. 

"  Wife,  where  is  the  horse-shoe  ? "  he  anxiously 
inquired,  as  he  stepped  back  into  the  cottage. 

"  Why,  nailed  up  there,  is  it  not  ?  " 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  117 

"  No :  Oh,  here  't  is,  fallen  down  on  the  ground. 
The  cow  will  give  bloody  milk  to-night,  if  she  never 
did  before." 

"  Do  nail  it  up  again,"  said  the  wife,  running  to 
him  with  the  hammer  and  a  nail.  This  was  im 
mediately  done,  and  the  old  soldier  sat  down  and 
wiped  his  forehead  with  his  shirt  sleeve. 

"  It  was  unlucky  that  that  should  be  off  the  house 
when  she  came." 

"  Why,  who  is  she  ?"  inquired  the  traveler,  who 
had  been  curiously  watching  the  operations  of  the 
good  soldier. 

"  A  witch,"  murmured  the  host,  looking  uneasily 
around;  "but  we  must- speak  low;  they  say  she 
can  hear  through  stone  walls." 

"  Pshaw !  you  old  dunce,"  interrupted  the  little 
hostess,  whose  courage,  under  the  spell  of  the  horse 
shoe,  was  fast  expanding. 

"  She  can,"  persisted  the  old  soldier,  "  and  it  is 
well  known  that  she  has  dealings  with  bad  spirits. 
Do  you  hear  that  wailing  sound  away  off  in  the 
woods  ?  It  is  the  noise  they  make  when  they  meet 
her." 

"  She  may  be  an  evil  spirit  herself.  What  is  her 
name  ?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Moll  Pitcher,  but  people  here 
abouts  generally  call  her  The  Witch." 

"  And  does  she  live  hereabouts  ?  " 

"  A  few  miles  away,  in  the  woods,  in  a  little  cot 
tage  built  by  her  own  hands,"  said  the  hostess,  tak 
ing  up  the  tale.  "  She  has  lived  there  many  years, 


118  THE   WITCH, 

and  although  she  is  looked  upon  with  terror  by  most 
persons,  there  are  others  who  have  great  confidence 
in  her  skill  as  a  doctress,  for  she  has  done  some  won 
derful  cures.  They  have  employed  her  in  the  Elli- 
cott  family  for  some  time  ;  but  I  think  no  better  of 
her  for  that,  for  Madame  Ellicott  and  a  cousin  who 
lives  there  are  neither  of  them  much  better  them 
selves.  She  can  tell  fortunes,  find  anything  that  is 
lost,  make  love-philters,  and  people  whisper,  distill  a 
poison  that  is  instant  death." 

"  But  does  any  one  know  anything  of  her  origin 
and  history  ?  " 

"  The  story  is,  she  is  a  French  Canadian ;  that 
when  young  she  was  very  beautiful,  and  that  a  rich 
young  man,  falling  desperately  in  love  with  her,  per 
suaded  her  to  leave  her  parents  and  come  with  him 
to  our  Colonies,  and  in  the  end  left  her  to  her  fate. 
The  whole  matter  that  any  one  really  knows  is,  that 
she  is  a  witch.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  the  Governor 
suffers  her  to  go  at  large.  They  did  things  better 
in  Salem.  There  they  burned  and  drowned  them." 

"  But  you  never  would  have  Moll  Pitcher,  wicked 
as  she  may  be,  suffer  in  that  way,  would  you  ?  " 
pleaded  the  little  wife.  "  I  think  some  others  are  to 
blame  for  many  things  she  does.  Madame  Ellicott 
got  her  to  prepare  a  love  philter,  and  they  say — " 

At  this  moment  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  was 
heard,  and  two  young  men  spurred  up  to  the  door  of 
the  inn. 

"  We  are  in  search  of  Alice  Beaumont,"  they 
hurriedly  said.  "  Have  you  heard  or  seen  anything 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  119 

of  her  yet  ?  "  The  grave  shrug  of  the  hostess' 
shoulders  was  a  sufficient  reply,  and  without  waiting 
for  anything  further  they  galloped  away. 


CHAPTER    II. 

In  Ellicott  House  great  changes  had  taken  place 
since  the  death  of  its  former  mistress,  the  first  lovely 
and  good  wife  of  the  old  squire.  A  second  marriage 
had  followed  the  severance  of  the  first,  after  a  not 
very  long  time.  The  lady  that  was  chosen  to  supply 
the  place  of  the  first  wife  was  in  every  respect  her 
opposite.  Much  younger,  gay,  haughty,  and  ambi 
tious,  she  had  the  art  of  appearing  soft  and  lovely — 
the  very  embodiment  of  amiability.  Many  who  knew 
her  well  wondered  why  she  should  marry  an  old  man, 
and,  leaving  all  the  gaieties  of  city  life,  settle  down 
in  the  wild  and  secluded  fastnesses  of  a  mountain 
State,  with  a  man  nearly  twice  her  own  age.  But 
those  who  knew  her  ambition  and  his  wealth  had  no 
difficulty  in  solving  the  problem. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Ellicott  at  the  time  of  his  second 
marriage  consisted  of  his  only  son  and  child,  Alfred, 
a  boy  of  about  fifteen  years  ;  the  little  orphan  girl, 
Alice  Beaumont,  confided  to  him  at  the  death  of  her 
grandfather,  and  now  ten  years  old  ;  and  a  few  old 
servants.  To  these  Madame  Ellicott  had  added 
another,  a  little  girl  by  her  first  marriage,  of  the 
same  age  of  Alice  ;  and  a  cousin  of  her  own,  named 
Robert  Grayton. 


120  THE   WITCH, 

Soon  after  the  marriage,  Alfred  was  sent  away  to 
acquire,  in  the  preparatory  schools  and  University 
of  Cambridge,  that  thorough  education  which  his 
own  State  had  as  yet  no  means  of  bestowing. 

Meanwhile,  the  naturally  stern  old  man,  in  the 
hands  of  his  artful  wife,  gradually  yielded  up  his 
authority  and  will,  until  he  was  a  mere  child,  whom 
she  governed  and  moulded  with  a  skill  and  tact 
more  honorable  to  her  head  than  her  heart.  In  the 
execution  of  her  various  plans  she  was  aided  by  Gray- 
ton,  whose  moral  qualities  were  not  of  an  order  to 
throw  any  barrier  in  the  way,  whatever  might  be  the 
services  he  was  required  to  perform. 

A  prominent  plan,  and  one  to  which  every  other 
ultimately  tended,  was  to  secure  to  herself  the  bulk 
of  the  Ellicott  estate,  which,  for  that  day  and  coun 
try,  was  very  large.  To  this  end  all  her  blandish 
ments  and  arts,  and  they  were  neither  few  nor  in 
effective,  were  called  into  requisition.  Smiles  and 
caresses,  soft  and  enthralling  as  those  of  Delilah, 
charmed  and  bewildered  the  old  man,  and  the  in 
fluence  of  his  wife  grew  every  day  more  unbounded. 
But  after  years  of  undiminished  effort,  there  was  one 
thing  she  could  not  understand — her  absolute  in 
ability,  notwithstanding  all  her  apparent  influence, 
to  effect  her  one  great  purpose.  The  matter  was  en 
veloped  in  all  the  mist  possible,  to  so  adroit  a  man 
ager,  and  yet  he  seemed  to  see  through  it. 

"  Alfred  is  a  good  son,"  he  ever  replied  to  all  her 
attacks,  open  and  covert,  "  why  should  I  cut  him 
off?" 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  121 

It  was  in  vain  that  between  herself  and  her  cousin 
a  will  was  concocted,  and  absolutely  written ;  but 
parental  affection  still  kept  the  mental  vision  clear  to 
that  one  thing — the  rights  of  his  child — when  it  was 
dimmed  to  nearly  everything  else.  He  would  not 
sign  it ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Madame 
Ellicott  doubted  her  own  infallibility. 

Her  failures  thus  far,  together  with  the  completion 
of  Alfred's  studies  at  Cambridge,  and  his  final  return 
home,  at  length  induced  the  step-mother  to  a  change 
of  tactics.  A  noble  and  commanding,  but  gentle- 
hearted  young  man — his  handsome,  earnest  counte 
nance  perfectly  mirroring  all  that  dwelt  within — 
she  regarded  him  at  first  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
hatred  and  admiration — a  natural  enemy,  whom  she 
must  either  conquer  or  win.  Nothing  doubting  her 
own  powers  of  fascination,  she  soon  determined  on  the 
latter,  and  her  daughter  was  the  medium  through 
whom  she  designed  to  effect  her  new  purpose  ;  rightly 
judging  that  as  the  husband  of  Clara,  his  wealth  and 
honors  could  be  made  to  reflect  on  herself. 

It  would  be  perhaps  doing  Madam  Ellicott  in 
justice,  to  deny  that  in  this  final  plan  she  was  in  some 
sort  actuated  by  a  regard  for  the  happiness  of  her 
child,  whom,  next  to  wealth  and  power,  and  as  much 
as  her  cold,  calculating  heart  would  allow,  she  really 
loved.  But  that  love  was  of  a  selfish  and  iron  charac 
ter,  little  harmonizing  with  the  timid  and  gentle  nature 
of  her  child,  who  was  a  creature  apparently  almost  too 
tender  and  fragile  for  this  world. 

Fair  as  the  fairest  lily,  her  delicate  young  face 


122  THE   WITCH, 

lighted  by  eyes  of  the  softest,  loveliest  blue,  and 
draped  by  long,  wavy,  golden  curls,  her  graceful 
floating  little  person  seemed  that  of  some  exquisite 
sylph,  whom  a  rude  breath  would  extinguish. 

With  a  heart  as  loving  as  ever  beat  in  a  maiden's 
bosom,  she  had  only  one  friend,  and  she  was  of  that 
peculiar  nature  that  could  not  understand  how  one 
could  have  more.  This  friend  was  Alice  Beaumont. 
Her  she  loved  with  her  whole  heart,  and  during  the 
nearly  eight  years  in  which  they  had  been  insepa 
rable  companions,  the  strong  intellect  and  brave  heart 
of  Alice  were  ever  as  a  shield  before  the  weakness 
and  timidity  and  somewhat  feeble  intellect  of  Clara, 
protecting  and  sustaining  her  in  many  a  domestic 
trial,  when  she  would  otherwise  have  given  way.  It 
was  well  for  Alice  that  her  nature  was  thus  brave. 
In  the  time  of  the  former  Mrs.  Ellicott,  her  days  had 
been  all  sunshine,  for  in  that  estimable  lady  she  had 
found  a  protectress,  tender  and  loving  as  a  mother. 
In  Alfred,  also,  she  found  a  companion,  gentle  and 
devoted,  and  so  attached  to  his  young  playmate  that 
no  one  like  her  could  perform  the  little  services  of 
love,  which  a  petted  boy  requires  of  the  household. 
These  services  he  was  ever  ready  to  requite  ;  and  so 
she  became  the  light  and  joy  of  the  household — good 
and  loving  and  beautiful. 

But  before  many  years,  Alice  learned  that  life  has 
cloud  as  well  as  sunshine.  Her  protectors  died,  and 
long  ere  the  deep  sorrow  of  her  young  heart  was 
soothed,  another  took  her  place,  who  with  the  unerr 
ing  tact  of  childhood,  she  at  once  perceived  was  not 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  123 

worthy  to  fill  it,  and  she  involuntarily  shut  up  her 
little  heart  against  her. 

So  shrewd  a  woman  as  the  new  wife  could  not 
fail  to  detect  this  incipient  dislike  in  the  little  girl, 
whose  large  black  eyes  turned  away  with  a  sort  of  a 
shrinking  look  whenever  she  met  them  ;  and  she  at 
once  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  be  trouble 
some,  and  must,  in  some  way,  be  disposed  of. 

Until  Alfred  went  away  to  school,  however,  Alice 
knew  not  how  great  were  the  changes  and  trials  in 
store  for  her.  He  was  a  tall,  commanding  boy,  and 
was  a  check  and  protection,  where  both  were  needed. 
But  he  left  her,  and  then,  no  one  could  tell  how,  a 
strange  sense  of  oppression  began  gradually  to  be 
felt  through  all  the  household.  A  certain  insincer 
ity  in  Madame  Ellicott,  an  under-current  of  constant 
deception,  running  through  her  daily  life,  and  operat 
ing  in  a  thousand  unseen  ways,  silently  gathered 
a  cloud  over  the  happiness  of  the  whole  family,  and 
particularly  over  that  of  Alice.  Why  it  was,  she 
could  not  tell ;  but  she  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that 
behind  all  the  smiles  of  her  new  protectress  there 
was  evil  at  work,  Avhich  would,  by  and  by,  fall  upon 
her. 

Her  first  realization  of  this  dread,  she  found  in  the 
changed  manner  of  her  guardian.  He  grew  cold 
and  reserved,  and  sometimes  even  harsh  and  bitter 
towards  her,  until  she  felt  like  an  alien  in  the  house. 
Nothing  could  have  touched  her  like  this,  and  her 
sorrow  was  often  increased,  and  her  heart  clouded, 
by  the  smiling  sneer  or  covert  insult  of  his  wife. 


124  THE   WITCH, 

It  was  long  before  the  unobserving  Clara  perceived 
that  anything  was  amiss,  in  the  manner  of  her  mother 
to  Alice  ;  but  strong  affection  quickened  her  percep 
tions,  and  she  gradually  opened  her  eyes  to  the  fact. 
She  was  deeply  grieved. 

"  Do  not  mind  it,  Alice,"  she  would  say,  "  I  will 
love  you,  let  what  will  be,  and  nobody  but  you." 
This  strong  love  of  the  childlike  girl  comforted,  and 
by  degrees  became  sufficient  for  her  happiness.  She 
grew  less  sensitive  to  the  coldness  and  insults  of  oth 
ers,  while  she  clung,  protectingly,  and  with  an  ever 
increasing  love,  to  her  disinterested  friend. 

The  two  girls  had  just  attained  their  eighteenth 
year,  at  the  time  when  Alfred,  having  completed  his 
studies,  and  won  the  highest  honors  of  his  class,  re 
turned,  happy  beyond  measure,  to  be  once  more  at 
home.  Matters  there  were  at  once  the  better  of  his 
presence.  He  shed  a  new  life  over  the  household, 
and  the  troubled  waters  semed  for  a  time  at  rest. 
He  was  charmed  with  the  grace  and  beauty  of  the 
two  girls,  though  often  puzzled  at  the  childlike  Clara. 

He  could  not  understand  how  a  mind  should  never 
grow,  and  often  gazed  at  the  little  figure  floating  about 
him  with  an  amused,  bewildered  air,  as  he  would 
upon  some  ethereal  sprite,  that  might  at  any  moment 
vanish.  He  was  not  long,  however,  in  feeling  that 
her  deficiency  in  intellect  found  a  more  than  com 
pensation  in  the  unvarying  goodness  of  her  heart, 
and  he  strove,  by  every  means  in  his  power,  to  pro 
mote  her  happiness.  The  keen  and  watchful  eye  of 
Madame  Ellicott  was  not  slow  to  perceive  her  daugh- 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    TALE.  125 

ter  had  not  made  the  kind  of  impression  on  Alfred 
which  she  had  hoped  her  peculiar  beauty  might  en 
able  her  to  do.  On  the  contrary,  it  soon  became 
evident  to  her,  that  it  was  on  Alice  Beaumont  that 
his  eye,  with  the  most  interest,  dwelt ;  that  it  was 
her  wishes  and  tastes  that  he  most  frequently  con 
sulted.  Here  was  an  obstacle  which,  strangely 
enough,  she  had  not  anticipated,  but  which  threatened 
to  overturn  her  last  plan.  Her  husband's  health  was 
rapidly  failing ;  she  felt  that  little  time  was  now  to 
be  lost ;  and  in  her  despair,  she  resolved  upon  one 
more  experiment,  that  of  endeavoring  to  induce  him 
to  make  it  a  condition  of  his  will,  that  Alfred  should 
marry  her  daughter.  She  accordingly  redoubled 
her  attentions  to  the  doting  old  man,  and  by  wearing 
and  unceasing  importunities,  at  length  wrung  from 
him  a  promise  to  that  effect. 

It  was  only  two  days  after  this  promise  had  been 
given,  that  a  nurse  suddenly  entered  the  breakfast 
room,  exclaiming  Mr.  Ellicott  was  dying.  They  hast 
ened  to  his  chamber,  and  found  it  indeed  true ;  his 
last  moments  were  evidently  nigh. 

"  Alfred,"  said  the  dying  man,  turning  to  his  son, 
who  stood  gazing,  pale  with  sorrow,  on  his  father's 
changing  features,  "  you  have  been  a  dutiful  and 
good  son ;  and  now,  as  a  last  proof  of  your  filial  love, 
let  me  take  with  me  to  my  grave  your  solemn 
promise  to  obey  my  last  injunction." 

"  I  promise,  father." 

.  The  old  man  rose  suddenly  in  his  bed,  and  reach 
ing  out  his  hand,  took  that  of  Clara,  who  stood  near. 


126  THE   WITCH, 

"  I  command  you,  then,  to  marry — "  A  rattle 
in  his  throat  choked  his  further  utterance,  a  sharp 
spasm  contracted  his  features,  and  he  fell  back,  a 
corpse. 

The  name  had  not  been  spoken,  and  nothing 
could  equal  the  chagrin  of  Madame  Ellicott  at  the 
fatal  omission.  Alfred,  however,  at  the  last  moment, 
well  understood  the  matter,  and  deep  was  his  anger 
and  contempt  for  the  mother  who  would  have  thus 
fettered  him  against  his  will.  Too  generous,  how 
ever,  to  make  his  sentiments  known,  he  treated  her 
with  the  kindness  of  a  son,  sparing  her  every  pain 
ful  office,  while  he  himself  quietly  and  reverently 
performed  all  the  sad  duties  which  yet  remained  to 
be  rendered  to  the  father  who  had  ever  been  kind  to 
him. 

After  the  last  sad  scene  was  over,  and  the  remains 
had  been  consigned  to  their  final  resting  place,  the 
will  was  opened,  when  it  was  found  that  the  whole 
estate  had  been  left  to  Alfred,  with  a  strict  injunc 
tion  that  he  should  take  such  care  of  his  step-mother 
and  her  daughter  as  his  love  and  reverence  for  his 
father  should  dictate.  The  guardianship  of  Alice 
was  also  solemnly  bequeathed  to  him  as  a  more  than 
orphan.  No  words  could  paint  the  chagrin  and 
mortification  of  Madame  Ellicott  at  this  unexpected 
disposition  of  her  husband's  property.  Scarcely  lis 
tening  to  the  assurances  of  Alfred  that  everything 
should  be  done  for  her  comfort  and  pleasure,  she 
abruptly  left  the  room,  and  shut  herself  in  her  cham 
ber,  there  to  brood  over  her  disappointed  hopes,  and 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  127 

to  nurse  her  aversion,  now  become  hatred,  towards 
Alice.  A  light  knock  at  the  door  aroused  her,  and 
ere  she  could  say  come  in,  Grayton  stood  before  her. 
"  Well!  "  said  he,  after  standing  and  gazing  at  her 
for  the  space  of  a  minute,  "  What  now  ?  " 

"  What  now  ?  "  she  angrily  repeated  ;  "  and  have 
you  nothing  better  to  say  to  me  in  my  beggary  and 
despair  ? " 

"  Beggary  and  despair  !  What  folly  to  give  up 
in  this  way,  when  Clara  may  yet  marry  Alfred,  and 
you  remain  mistress  of  Ellicott  House.  He  prom 
ised—" 

"  Promised  what  ?  No  name  was  spoken.  It 
seems  as  if  fate,  determined  to  thwart  all  my  plans, 
cut  the  thread  of  the  old  dotard's  life  just  at  the  one 
only  moment  of  my  life  when  I  was  about  to  realize 
my  highest  hopes,  and  the  years  of  living  death 
I  have  endured  were  to  be  rewarded  by  position 
and  wealth." 

"  Why  did  you  marry  him,  then,  when  you  loved 
me,  and  knew  well  that  I  would  sacrifice  everything 
to  win  you  ?  " 

"  Because  I  loved  wealth  better  than  all  things 
else,  and  he  was  rich  and  you  were  poor  "  ;  and  the 
tone  in  which  she  replied  had  in  it  the  concentration 
of  all  bitterness.  "  But  why  all  this  now  ?  Robert, 
you  were  wont  to  find  means  to  any  end.  What 
shall  I  do  now  ?  " 

"  Alice  Beaumont  must  be  removed  at  once." 

Madame  Ellicott  started.  "  Where  ?  She  has 
not  a  friend  in  the  world,  and  the  infatuated  Alfred 


128  THE   WITCH, 

would  not  allow  her  out  of  his  sight  if  she  had  a 
hundred." 

"  Alfred  must  go,  in  a  few  days,  to  attend  to  legal 
business  connected  with  the  will.  He  cannot  return 
in  less  than  four  or  five  days.  That  will  be  time 
enough  to  dispose  of  her." 

"  Robert,  you  shall  not  harm  her." 

"  I  understand  you,  my  conscientious  cousin,"  he 
replied  with  a  sneer,  "  but  it  is  too  late  for  you  to 
affect  tenderness  now." 

"  Robert,  you  are  a  knave." 

"  Knave  or  not,  Ellen,  I  shall  do  you  one  service, 
and  then,  as  I  am  not  likely  to  get  the  share  of  the 
estate  you  promised  me,  I  think  I  shall  shake  off  the 
dust  from  my  feet,  and  seek  my  fortune  elsewhere." 

"  Robert ! " 

But  he  left  the  chamber  without  any  other  reply 
than  a  sneering  grin.  Mrs.  Ellicott  followed  him 
with  a  terrified  look  for  one  moment ;  then,  sinking 
back  into  her  chair,  compressed  her  lips,  clenched 
her  two  hands,  and  muttered,  "  Well !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  young  girls  were  together  in  their  chamber. 
Clara,  who  had  been  for  some  days  ill,  was  lying  on 
her  little  snow-white  couch,  and  Alice  sitting  by  her 
side  holding  her  hand.  Alice  looked  flushed  and 
uneasy,  and  silent  tears  were  on  the  cheeks  of  her 
friend. 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  129 

They  had  been  opening  their  hearts  to  each  other, 
and  their  conversation  had  been  tender  and  confi 
dential.  Both  had  been  for  some  days  aware  of  the 
unwomanly  means  by  which  Mrs.  Ellicott  had  at 
tempted  to  compel  a  union  between  Alfred  and  her 
daughter,  but  for  opposite  reasons  each  had  been 
silent.  But  to-day  some  stirring  of  the  heart  had 
unsealed  their  lips,  and  the  pent-up  stream  had 
gushed  forth.  Clara's  tears  flowed  faster  than  her 
words,  and  the  kind  and  soothing  caresses  of  Alice 
were  for  a  time  in  vain. 

"  How  could  she  do  so?  "  she  sobbed  ;  "  I  would 
not  have  him  think  me  knowing  it  for  the  world." 

"  He  will  not,  Clara.  He  knows  how  pure  you 
are.  He  will  love  you  just  as  well." 

"  I  do  not  want  him  to  love  me,  Alice  ;  what  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  do  you  not  love  him  ?  " 

"  No,  only  as  I  would  love  a  brother.  And  you 
too  love  in  that  way.  Alice,  do  n't  you?  " 

A  vivid  flush  overspread  the  face  of  Alice,  as  she 
looked  shyly  in  Clara's  face,  and  answered  "  No." 

Clara  turned  her  eyes  wonderingly  on  her  friend, 
and  a  new  light  seemed  suddenly  to  break  upon  her. 
Starting  to  her  elbow — 

"  Why,  Alice,"  she  exclaimed,  "  why  did  I  not 

see  it  before  !    You  certainly  are  in  love  with  Alfred, 
and  all  this  time  you  never  told  me  of  it." 

"  I  did  not,  my  darling,  because  I  knew  all  along 
that  your  mother  desired  that  you  should  be  his 
wife.  I  saw  that  you  loved  him,  but  could  not  tell 

9 


130  THE    WITCH, 

exactly  how,  and  I  would  say  nothing  until  I  was 
satisfied  on  that  score." 

"  And  loving  him,  you  would  have  sacrificed  your 
self  for  me  ?  Poor  little  thing  that  I  am  !  " 

"  Yes,  Clara ;  not  because  you  are  a  poor  little 
thing,  but  because  the  true  love  in  your  large  heart 
has  for  years  been  my  comfort,  when  others  would 
have  made  me  miserable." 

"  And  very  wicked  they  have  been,  too,  Alice.  But 
does  Alfred  love  you?  " 

"  He  told  me  so  the  day  before  he  left  us." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  ;  and  so  you  will  by  and  by  be 
mistress  of  Ellicott  House,  and  I  shall  occupy  this 
pretty  chamber  still,  for  we  will  always  live  to 
gether." 

A  warm  embrace  ratified  the  treaty  between  the 
two  young  girls,  and  an  hour  went  by  in  the  most 
interesting  conversation. 

The  hour  of  sunset  drew  near,  and  its  clear,  yel 
low  light  streamed  in  through  the  honeysuckles 
which  draped  the  open  window,  dotting  the  floor  with 
a  thousand  little  flecks,  and  flinging  soft,  waving 
shadows  quite  across  the  room,  to  the  easy  chair  in 
which  Clara  now  sat.  Both  had  been  for  some  time 
absorbed  in  thought. 

"It  is  so  lovely  this  afternoon,"  Clara  at  length 
murmured,  holding  out  her  little  pale  hand  to  inter 
cept  the  light  and  shadow,  which  lay  like  soft,  tremb 
ling  mosaic  on  its  white  surface.  "  How  I  wish  I 
could  go  out  and  walk ;  do,  Alice,  go  for  me,  and 
gather  me  some  of  those  wild  honeysuckles  and  ger- 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  131 

aniums,  which  grow  just  in  the  edge  of  the  wood ;  I 
do  so  love  the  sweet  flowers." 

"  And  you  shall  have  some  in  ten  minutes,"  ex 
claimed  Alice,  springing  to  her  feet.  And  taking 
her  little  white  sun-bonnet  from  the  closet,  she  threw 
it  carelessly  on  her  head,  kissed  her  friend,  and 
tripped  lightly  down  stairs. 

Clara  sat  quietly  listening  to  her  quick  footsteps 
on  the  gravel  walk,  and  then  to  the  creaking  of  the 
little  garden  gate,  which  she  did  not  quite  close  be 
hind  her ;  and  when  those  sounds  ceased,  resorted 
again  to  the  amusement  of  watching  the  lights  and 
shadows  on  her  little  hand ;  all  the  while  going  over 
again  her  conversation  with  Alice,  and  never  once 
thinking  that  the  ten  minutes  had  long  since  elapsed, 
and  that  she  had  not  returned.  At  length  the 
drowsy  hum  of  a  large  green  fly,  that  had  long  been 
trying  to  make  his  exit  through  a  window-pane,  to 
gether  with  the  faint  carol  of  birds  on  a  neighboring 
cherry  tree,  lulled  her  senses  to -a  profound  quiet, 
and  she  dropped  into  a  deep  sleep. 

When  she  awoke,  it  was  dark,  and  for  a  moment 
she  could  not  recall  where  she  was,  until  the  slam 
ming  of  the  garden  gate,  and  a  heavy,  grinding  tread 
on  the  gravel  restored  her  recollection,  and  she  won 
dered  where  Alice  could  be.  She  waited  and  waited, 
and  still  she  did  not  come  ;  and  the  evening  mists 
stole  in  at  her  window,  and  chilled  her  limbs,  but  no 
gleam  of  light  under  her  door,  or  well-known  footstep 
on  the  stairs  indicated  her  approach.  She  began  to 
grow  alarmed,  and  after  listening  to  the  beating  of 


132  THE    WITCH, 

her  own  heart  till  she  could  hear  it  no  longer,  she 
was  about  to  open  her  chamber-door  and  call,  when 
a  sense  of  her  folly  at  being  frightened  arrested  her, 
and  she  sat  down  again. 

"  What  a  foolish  little  thing  I  am !  "  she  thought. 
"Alice  is  doing  something  for  mother,  or  somebody 
else,  and  will  soon  be  here.  But  I  am  chilly,  and 
will  not  wait  for  her  to  help  me  undress.  The  moon 
is  beginning  to  shine  into  my  window,  and  I  do  not 
need  a  light." 

She  quietly  undressed,  and  lying  down  on  the  soft 
pillow,  soon  dropped  asleep,  thinking  that  Alice  was 
coming. 

But  Alice  did  not  come. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

It  was  the  third  morning  after  the  disappearance 
of  Alice,  when  the  stranger  whom  we  left  in  the 
wayside  inn  very  early  took  his  leave  of  his  kind 
hosts,  and  left  them. 

He  walked  out  into  the  highway,  but  seemed  un 
certain  which  way  to  proceed,  while  every  moment 
a  deeper  gloom  settled  in  his  eyes.  Finally,  choos 
ing  the  direction  leading  towards  the  haunted  house, 
he  turned  into  the  forest  through  which  it  ran,  and 
walked  slowly  on.  It  was  a  glorious  morning — sky 
and  earth  were  alike  beautiful ;  but,  busied  in  his  own 
deep  thoughts,  the  outer  world  was  a  blank  to  him. 
A  thousand  dewdrops  trembled  on  all  the  leaves  and 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  133 

sprays,  and  glittered  like  diamonds  in  the  truant  sun 
beams,  but  they  arrested  not  his  eyes.  Multitudes 
of  birds  on  every  side  sent  up  their  morning  songs, 
but  he  heard  them  not.  A  little  frisky  squirrel,  that 
ran  skipping  along  on  the  huge  logs  that  bounded  the 
roadside,  now  and  then  stopped  to  peer  curiously 
into  the  stranger's  face,  but  provoked  no  returning 
glance.  At  length,  he  began  to  murmur  aloud  to 
himself,  like  one  who  speaks  in  a  dream. 

"  Why  did  I  seek- this  place  again,  where  only  re 
membrances  of  a  miserable  past,  and  anticipations  of 
a  more  wretched  future,  could  meet  me  ?  Better 
far  had  I  died  in  slavery,  among  the  Algerians,  for 
then  I  should  have  been  at  rest." 

"  Perhaps  not !  "  said  a  harsh  voice  at  his  side. 

He  started,  and  saw  what  he  would  have  seen 
some  minutes  before,  had  his  eyes  not  been  looking 
inward.  The  old  woman  he  had  seen  the  evening 
before  at  the  inn  was  sitting  quietly  on  a  mossy  log, 
shaking  the  earth  from  various  roots  and  plants, 
which  she  had  apparently  but  just  gathered. 

"  You  might  just  wish  an  old  acquaintance  good 
day,  I  should  think ! "  she  continued,  but  without 
interrupting  her  employment. 

"  Do  you  know  me  ?  "  he  inquired,  in  great  sur 
prise. 

"  If  you  are  the  remains  of  Hubert  Delisle,  I  do." 

"I  am  ;  but  surely,  I  never  saw  you  before  yes 
terday  ! " 

"Ah,  suppose  you  take  the  trouble  to  look  a  little 
into  your  memory  ;  perhaps,  in  some  odd  corner,  you 
may  find  a  girl  you  once  called  Maud." 


"  Maud  !  "  repeated  the  stranger,  an  expression 
of  pain  and  doubt,  and  almost  horror,  crossing  his 
face—"  Maud  Decroy?" 

"  The  same,  at  your  service.  Our  roses  have 
pretty  much  withered  since  the  days  when — fond 
fools  that  we  were — we  toyed  our  youth  away,  and 
said  we  loved ;  but  I  think  we  both  of  us  find  the 
thorns  remaining.  The  handsome  young  artist  has 
become,  apparently,  a  gray-haired  vagabond,  and 
beautiful  Maud  is  transformed  into  the  hateful  witch, 
Moll  Pitcher." 

"  And  you  can  sit  there  and  remember  what  we 
once  were  to  each  other,  and  what  wreck  and  misery 
your  vanity  brought  upon  us  both,  and  not  hide  your 
face  in  shame  and  wretchedness  ?  " 

The  hand  of  the  old  woman,  now  for  the  first  time 
pausing  in  her  labor,  dropped  heavily  on  her  lap,  and 
a  fierce  convulsive  motion,  passing  over  her  face, 
made  her  features  more  hideous  than  ever.  But  a 
strange  softness  almost  immediately  succeeded  it,  and 
two  large  tears  trembled  on  her  eyelids. 

"  You  are  right,  Hubert ;  in  my  utter  misery  for 
years,  I  have  almost  forgotten  to  be  human.  Ah,  it 
is  long,  'tis  long,  since  the  day  your  rival  bore  me 
away  from  my  father's  home,  leaving  me  soon  to 
want  and  contempt.  Ah,  it  is  long,  for  my  punish 
ment  commenced  then,  and  has  endured  to  this  day. 
But  he,  too,  deserved  punishment." 

"  Yes,  and  had  my  dagger  reached  him,  he  would 
have  suffered  for  the  deed." 

"  I  know  it,  Hubert !  and  I  owe  you  more  thanks 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  135 

than  a  long  life  could  repay.  You,  the  one  I  had 
most  betrayed,  and  who  should  have  hated  me  ;  you, 
you  alone  were  kind  to  me.  When  others  would  have 
trodden  me  under  foot,  you  gave  me  the  means  to 
return  to  my  parents,  and  urged  me  to  do  so." 

"  You  promised  me  that  you  would." 

"  True,"  replied  Maud,  with  a  strong  burst  of 
emotion,  "  but  I  dared  not,  Hubert.  My  guilt  had 
separated  me  forever  from  the  good,  and  I  dared 
not  suifer  my  shadow  to  fall  like  a  blight  upon  the 
household  where  my  innocent  sister  yet  lived.  No ! 
I  never  trod  the  soil  of  Canada  again." 

"And  where  have  you  lived,  these  more  than 
fifty  years  ?  " 

"  I  changed  my  name,  and  wandered  about,  a 
vagabond  on  the  earth,  studying  the  virtues  of  the 
plants  that  grew  wherever  I  went ;  often  healing  the 
sick,  and  doing  what  good  I  could.  But  the  curse  of 
the  vagabond  was  upon  me,  and  I  took,  at  last,  to 
telling  fortunes,  and  pretending  to  power  I  did  not 
possess,  until  I  won  my  present  title  of  Witch ;  and, 
verily,  I  look  like  one." 

"  And  what  unholy  business  are  you  engaged  in 
now  ?  " 

All  its  unwonted  softness  vanished  from  the  face 
of  Maud,  at  this  question. 

"  Can  you  not  guess,"  she  inquired  with  a  disa 
greeable  grin,  and  tossing  him  a  pale,  ghostly  looking 
plant. 

"  This  is  deadly  nightshade.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  it  ?  Are  these  all  poisonous  ? " 


136  THE    WITCH, 

"  Not  all.  You  see,  in  my  vagabond  life,  I  have 
found  occasion  for  all  sorts  of  mixtures,  and  have 
learned  how  fco  help  people  out  of  their  trouble  in  all 
sorts  of  ways.  Perhaps  you  have  some  friend  you 
would  like  to  have  me  administer  to  ?  or  would  may 
be  like  a  draught  yourself." 

"  Poison  mixer  !  "  exclaimed  Delisle,  a  strange 
wild  glow  blazing  suddenly  up  in  cheek  and  eyes. 
"  Would  to  heaven  you  had  never  mingled  a  more 
deadly  draught  for  me  than  these  would  make. 
That  would  bring  peace." 

All  the  look  of  malice  and  wickedness  instantly 
vanished  from  the  old  woman's  face,  as  she  listened 
to  this  sudden  burst  of  passionate  reproach.  A 
strange  feeling  of  pain  and  surprise  was  evident  in 
her  voice  as  she  said : 

"  And  did  you  really  love  me  then  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  after  fifty  years,  the  wound  is  not  yet 
healed.  But  it  is  the  innocent  Maud  of  my  youth, 
that  I  remember  thus,  not  you.  Detestable  woman  !  " 

"  I  know  it,"  she  humbly  answered.  "  But  tell 
me  how,  after  so  many  long  years,  you  could  come 
into  this  secluded  spot,  and  love  and  betray  Alice 
Beaumont." 

"  Woman,  what  know  you  of  it  ?  I  did  not  be 
tray  her  because  she  loved  me,  and  because  I  could 
trace  the  beauty  of  your  young  years  in  her  child 
like  features,  and  I,  mad  fool  that  I  was,  married 
her  in  secret,  and  when  I  knew  I  must  soon  leave 
her.  Yet  I  expected  to  return,  and  return  with 
wealth  ;  for  I  left  her  to  go  to  France  to  receive  an , 


A    NEW   ENGLAND   TALE.  137 

inheritance  that  had  been  bequeathed  me.  But  the 
ship  in  which  I  sailed  was  taken  by  an  Algerine 
pirate,  and  most  of  the  crew  put  to  the  sword.  I, 
with  a  few  others  that  still  lived,  was  carried  to 
Algiers,  where  under  its  burning  sky  I  toiled  on  in  a 
slavery  that  has  bleached  my  hair,  and  broken  my 
health.  I  was  at  length  so  fortunate  as  to  save  the 
life  of  my  master's  child,  and  he,  in  return,  when  I 
no  longer  cared  for  liberty,  gave  it  me,  and  here  I  am 
— returned  to  know  that  my  former  brief  abiding 
here  was  but  a  curse  and  death  to  the  fair  young 
girl  that  I  so  rashly  wedded." 

"  Did  you  know  that  she  left  a  daughter  ?  " 

"  I  heard  it  last  night  for  the  first  time.  But 
whether  she  is  still  living,  I  did  not  learn  ;  as  the  ex 
citing  tale  of  a  young  girl's  being  lost  within  a  few 
days  interrupted  the  sad  story  I  so  much  wished 
to  hear,  and  I  could  not  renew  the  conversation  with 
out  exciting  some  suspicion." 

"  You  did  not  know  then — " 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  young  boy, 
on  the  unsaddled  back  of  a  horse,  who  came  slowly 
pacing  along  the  way,  whistling  as  he  rode,  but 
stopped  when  he  saw  Moll  Pitcher,  or  Maud  as  we 
will  still  call  her. 

"  I  was  just  going  into  the  woods,  granny,  to  find 
you  in  your  hut,  and  am  glad  to  be  saved  the  trouble. 
Mr.  Gray  ton  sent  me  to  give  you  this  "  — and  he 
handed  her  a  sprig  of  hemlock — "  and  he  told  me  to 
tell  you  his  dog  is  no  better,  and  he  shall  expect  you 
to-night,  at  six  o'clock,  at  the  old  mill." 


138  THE    WITCH. 

"  Well,  I  '11  see,  but  you  had  better  not  have  found 
me,"  and  the  boy  hastened  rapidly  away,  more  than 
once  looking  uneasily  behind  him. 

Maud  held  up  the  bit  of  hemlock.  "  That  means 
that  a  dose  of  rapid  and  sure  poison  is  wanted  ;  but 
they  will  be  disappointed." 

"Woman,  who  is  it  for?"  demanded  Delisle,  a 
strange  chill  running  through  all  his  veins. 

"  Gray  ton  says  it  is  for  a  dog." 

"  But  is  it  ?  " 

Maud  did  not  at  once  reply,  but  sat  gazing  fixedly 
on  the  face  of  her  companion,  while  an  earnest,  grate 
ful,  and  almost  joyful  expression  gradually  overspread 
her  face.  At  length,  reaching  out  her  hand,  she  took 
his,  and  drew  him  down  by  her  side. 

"  Sit  here  by  me,  Hubert,  without  shrinking,  and 
bless  God  that  all  good  has  not  yet  died  out  of  me. 
I  hate  those  who  employ  me,  and  would  sometimes 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  curse  them  and  die.  But  to 
you,  Hubert,  the  playmate  of  my  youth,  the  lover  of 
later  years,  the  compassionate  friend  when  I  was  lost 
and  all  others  reviled  me,  I  am  truly,  deeply  grate 
ful,  and  now  I  can  repay  it  all.  Hubert,  listen :  the 
poison  for  which  the  villain  Grayton  has  sent,  is,  I 
feel  convinced,  not  for  a  dog,  but  for  one  who  should 
be  most  dear  to  you." 

"  Woman,  what  mean  you  ?  "  he  gasped  out. 

"  The  girl  who  is  missing,  and  supposed  to  be  lost 
in  these  endless  forests,  is  your  own  daughter.  Stop 
and  hear  on.  I  do  not  believe  she  is  lost.  On  the 
contrary,  I  feel  all  but  certain  that  she  is  not  a  half 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    TALE.  139 

a  mile  from  here,  but  in  the  power  of  human  fiends. 
She  is  in  the  way  of  Madame  Ellicott's  ambitious 
schemes,  and  she  is  one  to  sacrifice  her  without  mer- 

cy." 

"  Woman  !  "  again  ejaculated  Delisle,  "  you  give 
me  a  fearful  light ;  I  see,  now,  why  God  has  led  me 
hither.  It  is  that  I  may  meet  the  reward  of  the  sins 
of  my  life,  and  lay  my  head  on  my  daughter's  grave 
and  die." 

"  Compose  yourself,  Hubert,  it  is  not  so  bad. 
Think  of  me,  not  as  I  am  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  the 
Witch,  Moll  Pitcher ;  but  as  the  innocent  Maud 
Decroy  you  loved  in  girlhood ;  and  rest  assured,  I 
will  die  myself,  rather  than  a  hair  of  your  daughter's 
head  shall  be  harmed." 

"  Tell  me,  then,  where  she  is,  that  I  may  go  and 
save  her !  " 

"  Do  not  be  too  hasty.  I  know  your  terror  and 
anxiety ;  bu';  remember  it  is  not  quite  certain  that 
Madame  Ellicott  intends  your  daughter's  death.  If 
she  does,  rely  on  it,  her  minion  Grayton  is  the  tool 
selected  for  the  deed.  He  has  sent  me  this  token 
that  he  desires  poison,  and  I  am  to  carry  it  to  him 
near  the  Haunted  House.  He  says  the  poison  is  for 
a  dog  ;  but  I  saw  three  days  since,  just  after  dark,  a 
young  girl  carried  into  that  house,  and  have  seen 
lights  every  night  since.  Others  have  seen  them 
also  ;  but  they — poor  weak  hearts — think  them  the 
lights  borne  by  the  ghost  of  her  poor  mother,  who  is 
said  to  haunt  the  house ;  and  she  might  be  there  a  year 
and  no  one  be  the  wiser.  A  hundred  pounds  of  gold 


140  THE    WITCH, 

would  not  induce  a  person  within  ten  miles  to  cross 
the  threshold  of  that  house  after  dark." 

"  But  you  will  not  carry  poison  ?  " 

"  Not  I,  indeed  ;  only  a  little  draught  that  will 
produce  a  deep  sleep  resembling  death,  but  from 
which  he  who  drinks  will  wake  in  twelve  hours  per 
fectly  well." 

"  But  why  administer  even  that  ?  " 

"  To  secure  time  and  means  for  a  more  sure  con 
viction  of  the  guilty,  and  to  prevent  any  more  dan 
gerous  resorts  on  the  part  of  Grayton." 

"  But  if  they  should  bury  her,"  shuddered  De- 
lisle. 

"  They  will  not  have  time  ;  for  at  the  worst,  it 
will  not  be  two  hours  after  she  has  taken  the  draught 
before  she  will  be  placed  in  safety.  But  go  you, 
now,  follow  yonder  path ;  it  leads  to  my  hut  in  the 
woods.  There  remain  until  sunset,  when  you  will 
find  me  here  again.  Before  that  time  I  will  have 
seen  Alfred  Ellicott,  who  is  away  this  forenoon,  and  all 
shall  be  prepared  for  the  deliverance  of  your  daugh 
ter,  and  the  caging  of  Grayton.  Believe  fully  that 
I  am  able  to  do  all  I  say,  and  stir  not  in  the  matter 
yourself  until  I  say  it  is  time,  or  the  serpent  will  es 
cape  without  being  scotched.  Think  of  all  you  have 
done  for  me,  and  have  faith." 

Very  unwillingly,  Hubert  Delisle  betook  himself  to 
the  path  pointed  out  by  Maud,  and  as  he  pursued  it, 
a  thrill  of  terror  ran  through  him  lest  she  should 
prove  false.  Yet  remembering  the  gratitude  she  ex 
pressed  for  his  kindness  of  the  past,  and  her  softened 


A    NEW   ENGLAND    TALE.  141 

mood  at  the  remembrance  of  their  youth,  he  banished 
the  suspicion,  and  went  on.  Perhaps  had  he  been 
fully  aware  of  the  estimation  in  which  she  was  held 
wherever  she  had,  in  her  many  wanderings,  strayed, 
he  would  have  doubted  still.  But,  happily,  he  was 
not ;  and  the  fate  of  his  child  was  at  length  trustingly, 
and  without  a  fear,  confided  to  the  hands  of  the 
widest  known,  most-dreaded  witch  that  ever  strolled 
the  witch-haunted  ways  of  New  England. 

Left  alone,  Maud  selected  a  long,  strong  stick  from 
a  hickory  sapling,  tightened  her  rude  belt,  and  tak 
ing  her  basket  on  her  arm,  started  on  her  mission  of 
gratitude  and  mercy,  with,  perhaps,  the  first  really 
womanly  and  virtuous  emotions  throbbing  at  her 
heart,  that  had  stirred  its  fountains  for  many  a  long 
and  sinful  year. 

The  sun  was  just  tinging  the  east  with  gold,  on  the 
morning  following  the  events  recorded  in  the  last  chap 
ter,  when  Madame  Ellicott  lay  in  the  troubled  sleep 
that  she  had,  as  night  wore  away,  at  last  won  to  her 
eyelids.  She  had  lain  down  in  an  agony  of  suspense 
and  terror,  with  which  the  crime  that  she  had  tried 
to  persuade  herself  she  did  not  know  was  to  be  com 
mitted  filled  her  soul.  All  night  long  she  had 
wrestled  with  the  fiends  that  surrounded  her  bedside, 
and  not  until  near  day-break  had  exhausted  nature 
given  way,  and  she  went  to  sleep,  but  not  to  repose. 

She  dreamed  that  she  lay  in  a  dark  wood,  in  a  mis 
erable  ruined  hut.  At  first  she  thought  herself  alone, 
but  peering  into  a  dusky  corner,  she  saw  Moll  Pitch 
er  mixing  a  poison  draught.  When  it  was  thorough- 


142  THE   WITCH,- 

ly  compounded,  the  witch  raised  her  hand,  and  a  pale, 
deathlike  figure  glided  in,  and  taking  the  mixture, 
turned  and  revealed  the  lifeless  and  decaying  features 
of  Alice  Beaumont.  She  approached  her  bedside, 
gazed  at  her  a  moment,  then  pouring  the  poison  into 
a  cup,  commanded  her  to  drink  it. 

With  a  loud  shriek,  Madame  Ellicott  started  from 
her  bed,  uncertain  whether  the  apparition  were  the  vis 
ion  of  a  dream,  or  a  reality.  A  trembling  shook  her 
whole  frame,  and  she  dared  not  remain  longer  alone, 
yet  where  to  go  she  did  not  know.  At  length,  throwing 
on  her  morning  wrapper,  she  determined  to  seek  her 
daughter.  As  she  hastened  toward  her  chamber, 
she  heard  Clara's  voice  sobbing,  and  speaking  in  sor 
rowful  tones. 

Filled  with  a  new  terror,  she  knew  not  why,  she 
could  hardly  open  the  door ;  and  on  entering,  a 
sight  met  her  eyes  that  rooted  her  feet  to  the  floor. 

A  slender  figure,  covered  with  a  linen  sheet,  lay 
extended  upon  the  bed,  while  Clara,  with  folded 
hands,  was  kneeling  by  its  side.  At  the  sight  of 
her  mother  she  uttered  a  stifled  shriek,  and  starting 
to  her  feet,  folded  back  the  cloth  and  pointed. 
There  lay  Alice,  fair  as  in  life,  dressed  in  her  usual 
garments,  but  hueless  and  motionless  as  death  ;  her 
white  hands  crossed  upon  her  breast,  and  a  few  pale 
flowers  wreathing  her  young  face,  and  grouped  on 
her  bosom. 

Madame  Ellicott  stood  dumb,  her  tongue  cleaving 
to  the  roof  of  her  mouth,  and  her  whole  face  and 
form  rigid  as  marble. 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    TALE.  143 

"  See  here,  mother,"  sobbed  out  the  poor  girl,  as 
taking  her  mother's  hand,  she  endeavored  to  draw 
her  nearer,  "  They  have  found  her  at  last ;  but  see 
how  pale  and  still.  0,  mother,  it  seems  as  if  she 
only  slept,  and  as  if  she  must  awake  again." 

At  this  moment,  Alice,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  opened 
her  eyes  and  looked  unconsciously  around. 

"  She  is  alive,  mother  !  "  screamed  Clara  ;  "  0, 
mother,  she  is  alive." 

"  It  was  not  a  dream,"  gasped  Madame  Ellicott, 
with  frightfully  staring  eyes.  "  I  knew  it  was  not  a 
dream.  It  was  the  spirit  of  her  I  murdered,  come 
back  to  be  avenged." 

She  turned  to  rush  from  the  room,  when  a  strong 
grasp  was  placed  on  her  arm,  and  Alfred,  with  Delisle 
by  his  side,  stood  gazing  sternly  in  her  face. 

"  Woman,"  said  he,  with  a  low  and  calm  but  de 
termined  voice,  "go  to  your  chamber,  and  thank  God 
that  a  great  crime  has  been  prevented.  I  will  see 
you  by  and  by."  She  disappeared  without  reply. 

Meanwhile  Clara,  who  had  attributed  her  mother's 
exclamation  to  mere  surprise,  and  had  not  heard  the 
command  of  Alfred,  was,  in  her  joy,  weeping  and 
laughing,  and  folding  her  recovered  friend  to  her 
breast — covering  her  face  and  hands  with  kisses  and 
tears,  and  uttering  her  name  in  tones  of  the  deepest 
tenderness. 

Delisle  stood  near  his  daughter,  who  now  sat  up 
and  seemed  trying  to  recall  her  senses.  He  felt 
that  she  was  his  own — every  feature  of  her  young 
face  attested  it,  and  the  tide  of  overwhelming  affec- 


144  THE   WITCH, 

tion  at  his  heart  confirmed  the  fact.  But  how  dare 
he  make  it  known  to  her,  who  had  been  undoubtedly 
taught  to  execrate  his  name  and  memory  ?  As  these 
thoughts  agitated  his  mind,  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her  face  in  a  gaze  he  could  not  turn  away,  while 
every  feature  of  his  remarkable  countenance  was 
working  with  suppressed  emotioa 

Suddenly  Alice,  possibly  feeling  the  magnetic  in 
fluence  of  the  gaze,  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his,  and 
a  strange,  new  feeling,  never  felt  before,  seemed  to 
pervade  her  whole  heart.  She  folded  her  hands  to 
gether  and  laid  them  on  her  breast,  and  gazing  still, 
great  tears  rolled,  one  after  another,  down  her 
cheeks. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  she  murmured,  as  if  in  a 
dream. 

"  Yes,  well  may  you  ask,  dear  Alice,"  said  Alfred, 
quietly  taking  her  hands  in  his  own,  "  for  it  is  to  this 
venerable  man  you  are  indebted  for  your  safety." 

"  To  him !  0,  bless  you,  sir,  for  what  you  have 
done  for  me  !  I  shall  love  you  forever,  as  if  you 
were  my  father !  " 

At  this  sweet  and  grateful  assurance,  uttered  in 
the  most  impassioned  tones,  all  the  long-sleeping  ten 
derness  of  a  life  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the  old  man. 
For  a  moment  a  struggle,  incomprehensible  to  the 
observers,  was  visible  on  his  features  ;  but  raising  his 
eyes  to  Heaven,  "  He  who  is  just  and  merciful,"  he 
solemnly  said,  "  has  now  rewarded  me  for  the  suffer 
ings  of  a  long  life.  Blessed  be  his  holy  name  !  " 

A  confused  bustle  was  at  this  moment  heard  in  the 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    TALE.  145 

apartment  below,  and  a  minute  after  a  servant,  en 
tering  the  room,  announced  that  Moll  Pitcher  had 
been  found  a  short  distance  from  the  house,  mortally 
wounded  ;  that  she  was  now  lying  in  the  room  below, 
apparently  dying,  and  earnestly  desired  to  see  Alfred 
Ellicott  and  the  stranger  who  was  now  with  him. 

In  great  excitement  and  confusion,  the  whole 
party,  including  Alice,  who  seemed  quite  herself 
again,  proceeded  to  the  indicated  room ;  and  there, 
her  life  slowly  ebbing  away  at  a  deep  wound  in  her 
breast,  lay  the  wretched  woman,  so  long  the  super 
stition  of  New  England,  and  even  now,  in  her  utter 
helplessness,  an  object  of  fear  and  aversion  to  nearly 
all  around  her. 

She  looked  anxiously  from  one  to  another,  when 
her  eye  falling  on  Delisle,  a  smile  lit  up  her  bronzed 
and  haggard  features,  now  putting  on  the  ashen  gray 
of  death. 

"  Come  here,  Hubert  Delisle,"  she  faintly  said, 
as  reaching  out  her  dark  and  withered  hand,  she 
took  his,  reluctantly  yielded :  "  I  cannot  die  without 
your  forgiveness  for  all  the  evil  I  in  my  early  days 
wrought  you.  I  repent,  Hubert,  I  have  repented." 

"  And  you  have  also  suffered — I  forgive  you, 
Maud,  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven.  Die  in  peace." 

Again  the  peculiar  and  grateful  smile  flitted  over 
the  dark  face  of  the  dying  woman,  and  she  was  for 
some  moments  silent.  At  length,  drawing  his  hand 
closer  to  her  bosom — 

"  It  will  not  harm  you  ;  let  me  hold  your  hand,  Hu- 
10 


146  THE    WITCH, 

bert,  when  I  die,  that  I  may  feel  that  I  am  not 
wholly  severed  from  my  kind." 

The  deep  and  strange  pathos  in  her  voice  touched 
the  heart  of  Delisle,  and  he  sat  down  close. by  her 
side,  still  holding  her  hand. 

"  This  calls  back  the  days  when  I  was  innocent," 
she  feebly  murmured.  "  Ah,  Hubert,  between  that 
time  and  this  is  a  gulf  that  is  deep  and  wide,  and 
filled  with  many  iniquities.  But  I  have  not  been  so 
evil  as  they  thought  me ;  and  whatever  else  I  may 
have  done,  I  have  never  voluntarily  caused  the  death 
of  a  human  being.  I  have  done  some  good,  perhaps, 
but  it  has  too  often  been  for  selfish  purposes.  But 
now,  I  have  done  one  good  act  from  a  pure  motive. 
I  have  saved  the  life  of  your  child,  for  your  sake, 
and  for  the  sake  of  other  days,  and  in  doing  it  I 
have  lost  my  own.  Thank  God,  that  it  is  for  you 
that  I  die !  " 

Delisle  started,  and  gazed  inquiringly  in  her  face, 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "for  you!  Robert  Grayton, 
who  has  escaped  beyond  pursuit,  dealt  the  blow ;  but 
God,  who  knows  all  things,  knew  it  was  the  fittest 
time  for  me  to  die.  Pray  for  me  now,  Hubert,  that 
He  will  forgive  my  sins." 

The  old  man  knelt  down  by  the  side  of  the  dying 
woman,  and  a  prayer,  deep  and  true  as  ever  went  up 
to  heaven,  rose  from  his  lips.  He  rose  from  his 
knees,  and  once  more  taking  her  hand  in  his  own, 
solemnly,  and  with  a  strange  look  of  inspiration  pro 
nounced — 

"  Maud  Decroy,  God  has  forgiven  thee  thy  sins !" 


A    NEW    ENGLAND   TALE.  147 

Clasping  his  hand  again  to  her  breast,  a  look  of  inef 
fable  peace  settled  over  her  face,  and  she  was  dead. 

The  words  of  the  dying  woman  had  revealed  the 
secret  of  Delisle,  and  the  joy  of  the  father  and  child 
touched  every  heart. 

""  May  you  never  be  separated  in  this  life  !  "  said 
Alfred,  as  he  uttered  his  heartfelt  congratulations. 
And  leading  them  away,  where  they  might  enjoy 
their  first  emotions  undisturbed,  he  sought  the  cham 
ber  of  Madame  Ellicott. 

But  whatever  might  have  been  his  final  determin 
ation,  in  relation  to  her  participation  in  the  great 
crime,  which  was  iutended  to  destroy  the  life  of 
Alice,  and  which  in  her  terror  she  had  confessed,  he 
was  spared  the  pain  of  carrying  it  into  execution. 
He  found  her  lying  on  the  floor,  dead  !  having  been 
struck  by  a  sudden  apoplexy,  induced  by  strong  and 
terrible  emotion. 

Little  remains  to  be  told.  The  marriage  of  Alice 
and  Alfred  soon  took  place,  and  Clara,  who  never 
heard  the  story  of  her  mother's  sin,  remained  with 
them  ;  never  separating  from  her  only  friend.  The 
last  days  of  Hubert  Delisle  were  his  happiest.  And 
among  his  most  deeply  felt  causes  of  gratitude  to 
God,  he  always  reckoned  the  atoning  deed  and  fear 
ful  death  of  Maud  Decroy. 

"  Thank  God,"  he  would  say,  "  she  died  repentant 
and  at  peace  with  Him,  and  not  as  she  had  lived, 
the  hateful  and  hated  WITCH  OF  NEW  ENGLAND." 


BY  T.  STARR  KING. 

CHRISTIAN  strength  consists  in  the  possession 
of  internal  stores,  which  will  enable  us,  in  a 
measure,  to  maintain  an  independence  of  outward 
circumstances  for  happiness. 

And  first,  let  me  speak  of  the  need  that  men 
should  have  some  mental  possessions,  which  they 
have  stored  away  by  the  activity  and  fidelity  of 
their  minds.  I  do  not  say  that  a  man  cannot  be  a 
Christian  unless  he  is  educated.  The  Christian 
life  and  character  is  determined  by  our  loves,  our 
aspirations — the  state  of  our  hearts — not  by  our  in 
tellectual  development  and  acquisitions.  But  the 
•more  mental  culture  a  man  has,  other  things  being 
equal,  the  more  resources  he  will  have  in  himself, 
and  the  nobler  will  be  his  life. 

God  did  not  give  us  this  exquisitely  ordered  rea 
son  as  a  toy.  He  has  not  surrounded  us  with  the 
riches  and  mysteries  of  his  wisdom,  that  we  might 
be  indifferent  to  them.  He  would  have  us  cultivate 
our  mental  gifts,  and  inquire  into  the  majestic  meth 
ods  of  this  infinite  reason ;  and  ennoble  our  spirits 


INWARD    RESOURCES.  149 

by  an  acquaintance  with  the  beauty  and  order,  the 
skill  and  goodness,  which  the  sky  and  the  sea,  the 
depths  of  the  earth,  the  vaults  of  air,  and  the  sweep 
of  his  moral  Providence,  unfold.  When  the  mental 
faculties  are  awake,  and  the  vigor  of  the  heart  is  con 
secrated  by  a  Christian  temper,  the  character  is  more 
massive  and  complete.  It  is  more  independent,  it 
has  a  deeper  and  fuller  communion  with  God.  A 
man  has  more  store  in  his  own  nature.  The  strength 
of  two  strands  is  greater  than  that  of  one  ;  and  when 
God  gives  us  a  noble  faculty,  we  may  be  sure  there 
is  no  danger  in  training  it  to  the  utmost,  if  we  but 
keep  it  in  subjection  to  the  true  spirit,  and  dedicate 
its  activity  to  the  highest  end. 

Some  of  the  most  inspiring  suggestions  and  pic 
tures  of  history  are  those  which  teach  us  the  power 
of  the  mind  of  man  to  conquer  adverse  circum 
stances,  and  vindicate  its  royalty  over  fortune. 
Poor  and  blind  Homer  !  What  mental  stores  had 
he  as  a  foundation  against  the  neglect  of  men.  And 
how  liberally,  with  a  Christian  spirit  that  moved 
him  to  return  the  richest  good  for  evil,  has  he  blessed 
the  world  that  slighted  him,  from  that  intellectual 
treasury  which  poverty  could  not  drain  nor  scorn 
impair.  How  nobly,  too,  stood  Washington ;  up 
held  in  adversities  and  upholding  the  spirits  of  a  na 
tion  in  times  of  utter  darkness,  by  his  inward  store 
of  plans,  hopes,  and  visions  of  brighter  hours.  And 
shall  we  forget  the  experience  of  him,  the  great 
Christian  poet>  who  sang  of  the  lost  and  better  para 
dise  ?  The  outward  world  was  shut  out  from  him. 


150  INWARD   RESOURCES. 

With  sad  sweet  melody  did  he  sing  : 

"Seasons  return,  but  not  to  rne  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  eve,  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  human  face  divine ; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever  during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off.          *          *          *          *          *         * 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance,  quite  shut  out." 

But  his  soul  was  filled  with  the  riches  of  thought 
which  he  had  stored  away.  Penury,  disgrace  and 
blindness  did  not  leave  him  without  resources — could 
not  prevent  his  feeding  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary 
more  harmonious  numbers  "  swarms  of  glorious  ma 
jestic  visitants  were  with  him,  since  his  aspiration 
was  answered — " 

"So  much  the  rather,  thou  celestial  light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate  these  pliant  eyes,  all  mist  from  them 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell, 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight." 

No  character  is  complete  that  has  not  some  men 
tal  treasures  on  which  it  may  draw  during  the  treach 
ery  of  fortune.  It  is  a  mournful  spectacle,  morally 
mournful,  to  see  a  person  retiring  from  the  world 
with  treasures  of  wealth,  or  one  who  has  perhaps 
been  shipwrecked  by  the  chances  of  trade,  or  an  old 
man  whose  bodily  faculties  have  failed  before  his 
energy,  either  restless  or  melancholy,  or  listless  and 
unhappy,  because  the  customary  excitement  of  ac 
tivity,  or  the  fashionable  position,  or  the  sight  of  the 


INWARD    RESOURCES.  151 

crowd,  is  denied  to  them  ;  to  see  that  no  love  of  truth 
in  a  world  so  full  of  wisdom,  no  taste  in  a  universe 
so  full  of  beauty,  no  mental  appetites,  where  nature 
offers  to  them  such  bountiful  repasts,  have  been  theirs 
during  a  long  life  of  constant  toil ;  and  therefore, 
that  when  the  horn  of  plenty  runs  over,  or  when  luck 
plays  false,  or  the  limbs  fail  the  stronger  mind,  there 
is  no  independent  manliness  to  assert  its  proper  maj 
esty,  no  inward  resources  to  attest  an  educated  soul. 
By  every  consideration  of  noble  self-interest  and  grati 
tude  to  God,  for  the  gift  of  reason,  every  person  is 
called  upon  to  lay  up  some  store  of  knowledge,  and 
to  form  some  pure  mental  tastes,  as  a  foundation 
against  the  evil  fortunes  that  many  lurk  in  the  time 
to  come. 

Again — and  here  we  approach  the  spiritual  ele 
ments  of  our  subject — every  person  should  have 
within  a  store  of  moral  power,  -affections,  principle. 
Every  man  whose  virtue  is  secure,  must  possess  a 
fund  of  moral  strength,  which  is  more  than  equal  to 
all  the  demands  upon  his  will.  It  is  not  enough  to 
establish  the  purity  of  any  soul,  that  it  can  just  rub 
and  go  in  keeping  clear  of  sin.  It  must  have  stores 
of  spiritual  force,  upon  which  it  is  not  compelled  to 
draw.  God  would  have  our  triumph  over  evil  an 
easy  conquest,  one  which  does  not  fret  arid  wear 
our  hearts  away  by  keeping  them  always  at  their 
toughest  strain.  It  is  a  bad  sign  if  we  have  to  wres 
tle  long  with  ordinary  temptations.  A  man  ought 
to  feel,  not  only  that  he  is  equal  to  ordinary  trials, 
but  superior  to  them,  equal  to  the  greatest  trial  that 


152  INWARD    RESOURCES. 

may  come — yes,  superior  to  that.  Not  that  a  good 
man  will  be  or  ought  to  be  proud  of  his  strength  ; 
not  that  there  should  ever  be  a  haughty  and  compla 
cent  self-reliance  in  his  breast.  The  infinite  richness  of 
his  resources  should  lie  in  pure  affections,  that  seek, 
and  love,  and  are  attracted  to,  and  live  in  the  right 
and  good.  This  experience  of  virtue  should  be  so 
deep,  his  holiness  so  vital,  his  piety  so  constant,  that 
goodness  and  holiness  become  the  food  of  his  spirit. 
His  reliance,  therefore,  will  not  be  on  granite 
strength  of  resolution  and  Titanic  vigor  of  will ;  he 
never  will  cherish  a  spirit  of  bravado,  and  desire  to 
play  the  pugilist  with  evil ;  his  resources  should  be 
so  vast,  that  base  suggestions  will  pass  by  him  with 
out  leaving  a  soil  upon  his  heart,  or  finding  any 
chance  to  hold  parley  with  his  will — pass  by  him  as 
a  temptation  to  sinful  indulgence  would  have  flitted 
before  the  upraised  eye  of  Christ,  without  disturbing 
the  serenity  of  his  prayer.  The  good  man's  re 
sources  of  power,  like  his  mental  stores,  are  culti 
vated  faculties,  right  instincts,  that  naturally  seek 
the  good  ;  holy  affections  abiding  ever  in  his  heart ; 
and  which,  by  their  positive  attractions,  do  away  at 
last  with  the  necessity  for  any  vigorous,  visible,  or  con 
scious  conflict  with  sin. 

And  such  inward  resources,  thus  founded,  form 
the  good  man's  support  in  seasons  of  trial  and  suffer 
ing  for  virtue.  He  is  sustained  then  by  the  treas 
ures  of  his  heart.  The  internal  resources  of  power 
which  would  not  suffer  him  to  be  false  to  duty,  be 
come  resources  of  support  and  pleasure  in  the  crisis 


INWARD    RESOURCES.  153 

and  the  need.  The  spirit  of  sacrifice  wherever  found, 
or  in  what  manner  soever  shown,  is  always  a  spirit 
of  illumination.  Stephen  and  Peter,  and  the  proph 
ets,  and  the  great  missionaries  of  the  church,  have 
found  their  support,  not  in  a  miraculous  grace,  but 
in  that  grace  which  insures  to  every  faithful  spirit  a 
treasury  and  foundation  of  solace  and  strength,  which 
"  moth  and  rust  cannot  corrupt." 

It  was  the  buoyant  inward  stores  developed  by 
long  faithfulness  to  conscience  that  made  the  bearing 
of  Socrates  so  serene  before  his  judges,  and  filled  his 
prison  with  the  mystic  light  of  immortality ;  it  was 
Paul's  earnestness,  his  consciousness  of  a  well-spent 
life,  the  long  and  glad  devotion  of  his  will  to  the 
service  of  a  higher  law,  which  gave  that  grand  as 
surance  of  immortality  to  his  dying  spirit,  and  made 
him  welcome  the  ax  as  the  friendly  instrument  that 
should  release  his  spirit  from  its  prison,  and  permit 
him  to  seek  the  society  above. 

In  order  to  impress  us  most  deeply  Avith  the  fact 
that  holiness  is  the  highest  good  of  life,  God  never 
bestows  any  richer  blessing  upon  faithful  hearts  than 
their  own  holiness.  He  never  draws  any  nearer  to 
the  spirit,  or  by  any  other  medium  than  in  and 
through  its  holiness.  He  has  appointed  so  that 
goodness  shall  be  our  joy  in  cloudless  times,  and  our 
thought  and  comfort  when  the  sky  is  dark ;  and 
there  are  no  other  resources  to  uphold  a  wronged 
and  persecuted  good  man  in  his  seeming  desertion 
by  Providence  itself,  and  he  needs  no  other,  than 
"  the  good  treasure  of  his  heart." 


154  INWARD   RESOURCES. 

A  good  man,  too,  has  treasures  in  him  of  memory 
and  hope.  It  is  a  beautiful  and  beneficent  ordinance 
of  God,  that  we  love  to  remember  only  the  good  and 
holy.  No  person  does  or  can  take  pleasure  in  re 
calling  or  dwelling  in  meditation  upon  the  evil,  the 
base,  the  vile.  The  pleasures  of  memory  spring 
only  from  the  recollection  of  something  noble,  worthy, 
and  pure.  And  it  is  a  universal  law  of  souls,  that 
what  seems  unpleasant  and  arduous  when  we  have 
to  face  it,  and  resolve  to  do  it,  looks  delightful  when 
contemplated  as  a  treasure  of  memory,  a  fact  of  our 
past  existence.  In  prospect  and  retrospect,  good 
alone  looks  winning  and  delightful.  Say  to  any  man, 
that  next  week  he  will  perform  some  splendid,  heroic 
deed,  some  act  that  will  thrill  the  hearts  of  men,  and 
win  the  approbation  of  God,  and  it  will  delight  and 
inspire  him.  Prophesy  that  he  will  do  some  mean, 
selfish  deed,  however  profitable  in  a  worldly  view, 
and  he  will  recoil  from  it,  and  prefer,  before  the  ter 
rible  temptation  comes,  that  it  should  be  otherwise. 
We  give  to  holiness  the  vote  of  our  aspirations,  as  we 
contemplate  it ;  we  condemn  vice  by  the  judgment 
of  our  regrets  and  shame,  when  we  look  back  upon 
it.  Can  you  conceive  such  an  anomaly  as  a  mem 
ory  delighted  or  happy  in  the  recollection  of  its  once 
pleasant  misdeeds  ?  Ah !  we  would  throw  a  pall — 
a  pall  as  of  midnight  darkness — over  the  unfaithful 
ness  and  unhallowed  pleasures  of  the  past.  We 
would  make  the  miserable  moments  of  those  once 
welcomed  joys  a  blank  in  our  being ;  we  would  hail 
with  rapture  the  spell  that  could  wipe  them  forever 


"    INWARD   RESOURCES.  155 

from  the  tablets  of  the  brain.  Go,  ask  the  satiated 
sensualist  what  he  would  give,  if  the  foul  blots  upon 
his  soul's  history  could  be  exchanged  for  acts  of 
purity  and  honor — if  his  past  years,  so  spotted  with 
infamy,  could  unroll  themselves  before  the  eye  of 
meditation,  filled  with  winning  pictures  of  useful, 
holy  deeds :  ask  the  murderer,  whose  poison  for  ven 
geance  has  been  quenched  in  the  blood  of  a  victim, 
what  he  would  give  if  the  memory  of  his  crime  might 
be  blotted  from  his  spirit ;  could  his  dreams  and 
musings  be  void  of  specters,  and  he  be  enabled  to 
look  back  upon  an  injury  not  revenged ;  ask  the 
gambler,  even  the  old,  successful,  wealthy  gambler, 
if  such  a  one  was  ever  known,  how  much  of  his  treas 
ures  of  hell  he  would  pay  for  a  past  life  ennobled  by 
honor  and  useful  industry,  and  the  annihilation  of  a 
retrospect  from  which  he  cannot  fly  ;  ask  the  unde 
tected  knave  what  he  would  give  for  an  unpolluted 
heart,  an  unflawed  conscience,  the  sweet  sleep  of  in 
nocence,  and  the  rich  glow  of  satisfaction,  which  a 
sense  of  steady  integrity  sheds  over  the  retreating 
landscape  of  our  earthly  life  :  and  they  will  tell  you 
with  passionate  tears,  if  you  could  unlock  their  deep 
est  confidence  :  "  We  would  give  all  else  we  have." 
They  would  exclaim  in  words,  as  they  often  exclaim 
in  spirit,  "  Oh,  come  back  to  us,  sunlit,  quiet  days 
of  innocence,  that  lie  in  such  serene  beauty  in  the 
far  distant  depths  of  memory  ;  extend  like  a  line  of 
rich  hills  and  checkered  vales  along  the  burning 
wastes  of  years  on  which  our  eyes  now  fall  ;  let 
our  past  be  dotted  with  objects  that  may  charm  our 


156  INWARD    RESOURCES. 

backward  vision,  and  gratify  our  self-respect,  and 
win  the  approbation  of  conscience  and  God,  and  not 
mock  us,  as  now,  with  such  a  spectacle  of  moral  des 
olation  ;  let  us  but  be  able  to  look  with  unshamed 
spirits  and  inward  satisfaction  on  the  past,  and  we 
will  abandon  willingly  and  forever  all  the  pleasures, 
gains,  and  honors  of  iniquity.  Remorse  is  a  guilt- 
laden  memory,  pressing  heavily  on  an  awakened 
conscience,  that  teaches  us  too  late  the  folly  of  sin. 
It  is  from  memory  that  the  fiends  arise  which  haunt 
and  lash  the  guilty  breast ;  it  is  from  memory  that 
the  angels  of  light  are  born,  which  gladden,  with  their 
society  and  companionship,  the  faithful  soul. 

And  the  good  man  has  also  resources  of  hope.  It 
is  the  tendency  of  goodness  to  inspire  and  foster 
hope,  founded  on  confidence  in  man,  and  trust  in 
God.  To  the  intellectual  sensualist,  and  cold-hearted 
scoffer,  the  world  presents  a  sad,  cheerless  problem. 
Such  natures  see  only  the  sin,  wrong,  error,  selfish- 
ne,ss  of  men. 

They  have  no  generous  aspirations,  no  enlivening 
anticipations,  no  cheering  prophecies  of  good.  This 
is  the  philosophy  of  indifference  or  despair.  But 
among  the  treasures  of  a  religious  heart,  is  a  buoy 
ant,  animating  confidence  in  truth  and  right,  and 
the  better  part  of  human  nature. 

A  good  man  feels  that  goodness  is  the  great  fact 
in  the  universe,  rather  than  evil ;  that  providence  is 
more  powerful  than  the  finite  abstractions  and  dis 
turbances  which  it  encounters ;  that  divine  law  is 
mightier  than  the  anomalies  which  the  feeble  senses 


INWARD    RESOURCES.  157 

see  ;  that  wrong  and  evil  waste  themselves ;  and 
that  the  deepest  instincts  and  undying  sympathies  of 
man  seek  and  desire  the  holy  and  the  true.  And 
so  the  clouds  are  tipped  and  tinged  with  a  golden 
richness,  from  the  bright  light  behind,  and  the  har 
monies  of  providence  and  eternity  absorb  the  dis 
cords  of  the  moment  and  of  earth.  The  philan 
thropist  who  is  brought  in  constant  contact  with  vice 
and  degradation,  never  loses  his  confidence  in  man  ; 
the  martyr  never  doubts  God's  goodness;  the  re 
former  enjoys  a  premonition  of  the  triumphs  of  his 
cause.  Out  of  the  good  treasures  of  their  hearts — 
hearts  in  sympathy  with  holiness  and  providence — 
come  prophecies  of  the  triumph  of  holiness  and 
heaven. 


Bayard 


NO  FICTION. 

^  WELL  remember  the  night,  when  at  the  re- 
sp  quest  of  his  mother,  I  set  put  to  look  in  one  of 
the  private  gambling  houses  of  New  York  for  the 
dearest  friend  of  my  college  days.  Henry  Villiers, 
in  mind  as  well  as  person,  was  eminently  calculated 
to  conciliate  the  affections  of  all  around  him  ;  and  I 
thought  he  must  be  changed  indeed  if  I  could  not 
win  him  back  from  the  fatal  pursuit  to  which  he  had 
addicted  himself,  to  the  bosom  of  a  family  by  whom  he 
was  almost  idolized.  He  had  not  been  at  home  for 
some  days,  and  his  absence  had  created  the  most 
anxious  apprehensions.  I  had  undertaken  to  remove 
them. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  the  severe  January  of  last 
year  ;  for  two  days  previous  a  snow-storm  had  raged 
with  unwonted  violence  ;  the  streets  were  every 
where  covered  to  a  depth  of  from  three  to  four  feet, 
and  where  a  projecting  corner  or  accidental  wind 
ing  had  created  a  particular  current  of  air,  the 
drifts  had  risen  to  a  height  even  dangerous  to  the 
incautious  walker.  It  had  just  begun  to  thaw,  and 


THE   HAZARD    TABLE.  159 

the  cold  was  much  more  intense  than  it  had  been 
during  the  frost. 

With  an  involuntary  shudder,  I  wrapped  my 
cloak  more  closely  around  me,  and  with  unsteady 
steps  worked  through  the  masses  of  melting  snow, 
in  which  at  each  moment  I  sank  above  my  ankles.  I 
might,  perhaps,  have  been  inclined  to  turn,  for  the 
chill  of  the  night  seemed  but  to  second  the  internal 
shuddering  with  which  I  committed  myself  to  the 
dens  of  infamy  and  vice ;  but  that  image  of  the 
aged  mother,  as  she  wept  in  all  the  agony  of  hope 
less  solitude  over  the  blighted  prospects  of  her  son, 
rose  freshly  before -me  ;  I  heard  the  heart-thrilling 
tones  with  which  she  called  on  the  absent  Villiers — 
"  My  lost,  my  ruined  child  !  " — still  rang  in  my 
ears,  and  I  hurried  on,  with  the  determination  that 
no  effort  of  mine  should  be  wanting  to  restore 
that  child  to  her  arms.  If  I  needed  any  "ad 
ditional  inducement,  I  had  but  to  recall  the 
silent  anguish  -of  Miss  Villiers  ;  and  I  felt  armed  for 
any  conflict  of  mind  or  body  to  which  I  could  possi 
bly  be  exposed.  I  pursued  my  way,  therefore,  down 

R street,  with  renewed  energy.     The  heavy 

damp  on  the  lamps  completely  obscured  their  bril 
liancy,  and  left  scarcely  light  sufficient  to  show  the 
pallid  faces  and  shivering  forms  of  the  wretched  vic 
tims  of  vice,  whom  the  cravings  of  want  had  driven 
out,  even  on  such  a  night  as  this,  to  earn  a  miserable 
subsistence.  I  shuddered  at  their  solicitations,  in 
which  the  utmost  efforts  could  not  conceal  the  hollow 
tones  of  hunger  and  disease  :  and  turning:  from  the 


160  THE    HAZARD    TABLE. 

costly  avenues  of  fashionable  commerce,  I  passed 
into  the  first  of  a  succession  of  streets  which  were 
to  lead  me  to  the  object  of  my  search. 

A  series  of  involved  turnings  led  me,  after  a  walk 
of  some  five  or  ten  minutes,  to  a  retired  street,  which 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  the  place  I  was 
in  quest  of.  I  gazed  anxiously  around  to  discover 
the  house  to  which  I  was  directed,  but  the  uniform 
ity  of  all  those  near  me  presented  almost  insuperable 
difficulties.  The  lower  part  of  the  house  seemed, 
from  the  closed  outside  shutters,  to  partake  of  the 
nature  of  a  shop  ;  while  the  windows  of  the  upper 
stories  gave  promise  of  a  comfort  very  inviting  to 
those  whom  the  label  of  "  Furnished  or  Unfurnished 
Apartments,"  might  tempt  to  look  towards  them. 

I  pressed  my  hand  on  my  bosom  to  ascertain  that 
the  pistols  with  which  I  had  armed  myself  were  still 
there,  firmly  grasped  my  stick,  and  crossed  to  ex 
amine  more  accurately  the  house  opposite.  There 
was  no  appearance  of  a  door,  yet  I  was  convinced  it 
was  the  house  I  sought,  and  I  moved  a  few  steps 
aside  to  search  for  an  entrance,  when  a  tall  figure, 
wrapped  like  myself  in  a  cloak,  crossed  the  street, 
approached  me  closely,  and  a  voice,  in  rather  gen 
tlemanly  tones,  though  marked  by  a  slight  Irish 
accent,  said  "  This  is  the  house,  I  think,  sir." 

The  question  tallied  so  completely  with  what  was 
passing  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  answered,  almost 
involuntarily,  "  I  believe  so." 

My  new  acquaintance,  however,  seemed,  notwith 
standing  his  remarks,  to  entertain  no  doubts  on  the 


THE   HAZARD   TABLE.  161 

subject ;  for  turning  short  into  a  very  narrow  passage, 
which  the  darkness  had  hitherto  prevented  me  from 
observing,  he  approached  a  small  door,  or  rather 
panel,  in  the  side  wall,  and  knocked  three  times 
gently.  I  kept  close  to  his  side.  We  heard  the 
grating  of  iron  as  a  chain  was  thrown  across  the 
entrance.  The  door  was  then  opened  wide  enough 
to  admit  a  strong  glare  of  light  to  fall  upon  us,  and 
a  face  was  protruded  through  the  opening,  which 
accurately  reconnoitered  the  person  of  my  compan 
ion,  who  stood  foremost.  The  scrutiny  seemed  sat 
isfactory  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  but  a  short 
whisper  ensued,  in  which  the  phrases,  "  new  face," 
"  fresh  stranger,"  were  barely  audible.  The  door 
was  then  opened  to  its  full  width,  scarcely  sufficient 
to  admit  us  singly,  and  I  found  that  we  were  in  a 
small  hall,  between  the  outside  entrance  and  an 
inner  door,  completely  covered  with  cloth  and  sur 
mounted  by  a  brilliant  lamp.  The  attendant  turned 
a  spring  key  in  the  lock,  and  ushered  us  on  a  very 
steep  and  narrow  staircase,  which  my  companion 
and  myself  ascended  with  equal  steps. 

In  a  room  on  the  first  floor  I  distinguished  a 
strong  light  and  a  number  of  eager  voices.  Thither, 
then,  I  was  in  the  act  of  turning,  when  the  voice  of 
my  new  acquaintance  interrupted  me,  as  he  said : 

"  That  is  the  billiard  room  ;  you  go  up  stairs,  do  n't 
you?" 

"  Why,  yes,  I  believe  I  shall,"  said  I,  endeavor 
ing  to  assume  an  air  of  as  much  sang  froid  as  pos 
sible,  and  believing  that  up  stairs,  if  there  was  the 
11 


162  THE  HAZARD  TABLE. 

hazard  table,  Villiers  was  the  more  likely  to  be 
found. 

We  proceeded  accordingly  to  the  second  floor, 
and  my  conductor,  for  I  had  fallen  in  the  rear, 
pushing  a  door  immediately  opposite  the  staircase, 
motioned  to  me  to  enter  a  long  and  low  room, 
crowded  with  figures,  all  of  whom  appeared  deeply 
interested  in  their  various  occupations.  I  did  not 
at  first  see  Villiers.  Close  on  my  right  lay  the 
remnants  of  a  supper,  to  which  full  justice  appeared 
to  have  been  done,  for  but  a  few  fragments  remained 
to  satisfy  the  appetite  of  one  or  two,  who,  having 
been  too  late  for  its  glories,  were  now  voraciously 
swallowing  whatever  remained  that  was  eatable. 

"  They  sup  early,  sir ;  we  are  almost  too  late," 
said  rny  companion,  and  throwing  aside  his  cloak,  he 
instantly  attacked  the  remaining  viands  with  great 
zeal." 

"  I  thank  you  ;  I  am  not  hungry,"  I  replied,  gaz 
ing  at  the  same  moment  on  the  form  and  features 
of  the  speaker.  Succeeding  events  imprinted  his  ap 
pearance  on  my  memory  Avith  but  too  fearful  distinct 
ness.  He  was  one  of  the  most  powerful  looking  men 
I  ever  met.  About  six  feet  high  and  made  in  pro 
portion,  his  frame  was  remarkable  rather  for  strength 
and  weight  than  activity.  The  face,  as  his  eyes 
were  bent  on  the  table,  had  nothing  in  it  peculiar, 
except  that  the  projection  of  one  or  two  front  teeth 
broke  the  regularity  of  the  features. 

He  looked  upwards,  however,  as  he  addressed  me 
a  second  time,  with,  "  You  do  n't  eat,  sir,"  and  I 


THE   HAZARD    TABLE.  163 

almost  shrank  from  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  as 
they  met  my  view ;  small  and  deep  set,  of  a  light 
gray  color,  but  appearing  at  first  view  darker,  from 
the  overhanging  and  closely-knit  brows  which  shaded 
them,  they  seemed  to  combine  in  them  all  of  ferocity 
and  cunning  that  imagination  could  picture.  I 
moved  hastily  from  beside  him,  and  walked  towards 
the  further  end  of  the  room.  On  one  side  was  the 
fire-place,  around  which  were  grouped,  busily  en 
gaged  in  conversation,  half  a  dozen,  whose  counten 
ances  plainly  showed  that  they  had  nothing  left  to 
risk.  Opposite  was  placed  a  large  table,  the  most 
conspicuous  portion  of  which  was  a  circular  revolving 
center-piece.  It  was  divided  into  small  compart 
ments,  colored  red  and  black,  and  the  game  seemed 
to  be  regulated  by  the  color  into  which  might  chance 
to  fall  a  small  ivory  ball,  which  an  attendant  rolled 
round  the  edge  of  the  circular  part.  Behind  this 
person  were  posted  the  regulations  of  the  roulette- 
table,  and  I  gazed  for  a  moment  or  two  at  a  game 
of  which  I  had  often  heard  as  the  most  ruinous 
among  the  varieties  of  play.  Few,  however,  ap 
peared,  on  this  evening,  to  be  its  votaries ;  and  I 
turned  to  a  round  table,  occupying  the  whole  end  of 
the  room,  about  which  were  thronged  all  who  seemed 
really  engaged  in  the  occupation  of  the  place. 

My  first  glance  fell  upon  Villiers.  He  was  sitting 
directly  opposite  to  me,  leaning  his  face  on  his  left 
hand,  whilst  with  nervous  anxiety  he  watched  the 
person  who  was  throwing  the  dice.  A  small  pile  of 
counters  lay  immediately  before  him,  and  his  right 


164  THE   HAZARD    TABLE. 

hand  rested  carelessly  on  them ;  but  his  attention 
was  completely  riveted  on  the  progress  of  the  game. 

The  muscles  of  Villiers'  face  worked  for  a  moment 
with  convulsive  energy  ;  but  steadying  himself  by  an 
effort — apparent  to  me,  at  least — he  pushed  across 
the  table  about  one-half  of  the  counters  before  him. 

"  You  are  fortunate  to-night,  Mr.  Yarney." 

I  turned,  and  saw  receiving  the  counters,  with  an 
air  of  cool  satisfaction,  the  man  with  whom  I  had 
entered.  I  barely  noticed  him,  however,  for  my 
feelings  were  too  much  interested  in  Villiers  to  allow 
me  to  dwell  upon  anything  else.  Alas,  how  changed 
he  was  from  the  Villiers  of  my  college  days.  He 
was  pale,  almost  ghastly ;  but  a  heated  flush  of  un 
natural  red  flitted  occasionally  across  his  cheek,  and 
showed  more  plainly  the  ravages  of  dissipation.  His 
elegant  form,  always  slight,  and  now  greatly  attenu 
ated,  seemed  unfit  to  associate  with  the  reckless 
countenances  of  those  who  surrounded  him. 

His  dark  hair,  which  I  had  so  often  admired,  at 
present  extremely  long  and  disordered,  was  thrown 
back  from  his  brow,  as  if  its  weight  was  too  much  for 
him  to  endure. 

He  was  not  now  betting,  but  seemed  to  have  re 
served  himself  until  it  should  come  to  his  turn  to  take 
the  dice  box. 

I  sighed  involuntarily,  and,  I  suppose,  audibly  ;  for 
Villiers  glanced  quickly  around,  and  his  eye  met 
mine.  For  one  moment  a  burning  blush  crimsoned 
his  cheek,  and  a  spasmodic  affection  seemed  to  flit 
across  his  brow.  It  was  but  for  a  moment.  He 


THE   HAZARD    TABLE.  165 

looked,  rather  than  nodded,  a  recognition,  and  turned 
to  watch  the  game. 

"  You  do  n't  play,  sir,"  said  the  voice  of  Varney 
at  my  elbow  ;  "  Come,  just  by  way  of  a  flyer,  to  put 
you  in  humor,  I'll  bet  you  a  twenty  he  throws  this 
time  a  deuce  or  an  ace." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  mechanically,  and  not  sorry 
to  throw  away  a  trifle  to  avoid  observation. 

The  throw  was  four  and  one.  and  I  was  in  the  act 
of  handing  over  to  Varney  the  amount,  which  I  pre 
sumed  I  had  lost,  when  the  voice  of  Villiers  pre 
vented  me. 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  pay  that  bet, 
sir,"  said  he,  coolly. 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  cried  Varney,  with  a  loudness 
which  instantly  attracted  the  attention  of  all  present. 

"  I  do,"  answered  Villiers  quietly.  "  The  odds 
were  in  your  favor ;  you  made  only  an  even  bet. 
By  the  rules  of  this  table  it  cannot  stand.  Banker, 
does  the  gentleman  lose  his  money  ?  " 

The  man  looked  for  an  instant  at  Varney,  and 
evidently  hesitated ;  but  the  tone  and  manner  of 
Villiers  prevailed,  backed  as  it  now  was  by  that  of  a 
number  of  young  men  around  the  table,  and  with 
manifest  reluctance  he  decided  that  the  bet  was  off. 

Varney  said  nothing  aloud,  but  my  blood  curdled 
as  I  caught  the  scowl  of  demoniac  malignity  with 
which  he  glanced  across  the  table,  and  as  he  ground 
his  teeth  I  could  hear  him  muttering, 

"  D — n  him  !     I  '11  be  revenged." 

It  now  came  the  turn  of  Villiers  to  take  the  box. 


166  THE   HAZARD    TABLE. 

He  pushed  into  the  center  of  the  table  all  of  his 
counters  that  yet  remained,  and  scarcely  waiting 
until  an  equal  number  were  risked  against  them,  he 
threw  the  dice  without  naming  any  number. 

"  A  main,  sir,"  said  the  banker. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  said  Villiers ;  "  seven  V  the 
main." 

The  dice  rolled  out,  and  the  next  moment  I  heard 
the  announcement,  "  Deuce — ace.  Caster  loses." 

"  Nicked  out,  by  Jove ! "  said  one  near  me. 
"  He's  smashed  now  ;  he  has  lost  a  devilish  deal  to 
night." 

My  ear  caught  the  words,  but  my  gaze  was  still 
upon  Villiers,  and  I  started  at  the  wildness  visible  in 
his  demeanor.  His  eye  was  expanded  in  a  glassy 
stare,  whilst  his  hand  passed  rapidly  over  his  pockets, 
as  if  to  see  whether  there  yet  remained  in  them  any 
thing  to  stake. 

"  Shall  I  pass  the  box,  or  will  you  take  a  buck, 
sir?  "  said  the  banker. 

"  Pass  on.  But,  no,  no !  Who  will  set  this 
watch  ? "  cried  he,  pushing  forward  a  large  gold 
repeater  which  had  been  given  to  him  by  his  mother, 
and  which  I  knew  he  therefore  highly  valued. 

The  stake  was  unusual,  and  no  "one  replied. 

"It  is  worth  two  hundred,"  said  Villiers.  "  Who 
will  risk  one  hundred  against  it  ?  " — he  paused — 
"or fifty?"  he  added. 

A  note  was  thrust  from  behind  me  into  the  ring, 
while  I  was  myself  pushing  forward  the  money  in 
place  of  the  watch,  which  I  was  determined  to  save. 


THE   HAZARD    TABLE.  167 

Villiers  raised  his  hand,  as  if  to  throw,  and  I 
feared  I  was  too  late,  when  suddenly  pausing,  he 
said,  "  Whose  money  is  that,  banker  ?  " 

"A  gentleman's  opposite,"  said  the  man,  looking 
to  Varney. 

"  I  do  not  bet  with  that  person,"  said  Villiers, 
deliberately.  "  Will  any  one  else  set  me  ?  " 

Every  eye  was  turned  on  Varney,  and  his  huge 
form  appeared  literally  to  dilate  with  rage  as  he  ex 
claimed  furiously,  "Beggar,  what  mean  you?  Dare 
you  insinuate  that  I  play  unfairly  ?  " 

Villiers  did  not  answer,  but  eyed  him  with  cool 
contempt.  The  question  was  again  put,  and  in  a 
still  more  ferocious  tone.  Villiers  looked  full  in  his 
face,  and  taking  up  his  watch,  said  slowly,  "  Do  I 
insinuate?  The  matter  is  now  beyond  insinuation. 
It  amounts  to  certainty." 

There  was  one  moment  of  silence.  A  rush  suc 
ceeded,  and  my  eye  caught  the  form  of  Villiers  as 
it  fell  senseless  on  the  floor,  while  the  fierce  eyes  of 
his  opponent  gleamed  brightly  above  him. 

"  Aye,  give  it  to  him  !  "  shouted  several  voices, 
"  Teach  these  beggarly  fops  what  it  is  to  meet  with 
a  gentleman  of  science  !  " 

I  pushed  hastily  forward,  and  taking  a  pistol  from 
my  breast,  cocked  it,  and  exclaimed,  "  The  first  who 
touches  him  dies !  " 

Varney  drew  back  in  terror.  I  slowly  raised  my 
friend  from  the  ground,  and  with  the  assistance  of 
one  or  two  of  the  more  gentlemanly  looking  persons 
around  me,  endeavored  to  recall  him  to  animation. 


168  THE   HAZARD    TABLE. 

His  forehead  had  struck,  in  his  fall,  against  one 
of  the  legs  of  the  table,  and  the  blood  was  flowing 
profusely  from  the  wound.  In  a  few  moments  he  re 
vived.  His  eyes  glared  wildly  around,  when,  sud 
denly  springing  from  our  grasp,  and  shouting,  "  De 
fend  yourself,  coward !  "  he  precipitated  himself  on 
the  huge  form  of  Varney,  who  stood  gazing  on  the 
scene  in  evident  triumph. 

The  movement  was  so  unexpected  as  to  throw  us 
into  momentary  confusion,  and  rapid  blows  were  ex 
changed  between  the  combatants  before  any  one 
could  interpose  to  separate  them. 

The  conflict  was  apparently  most  unequal  ;  for 
Varney  was  taller,  and  nearly  double  the  weight  of 
his  opponent.  But  excitement  seemed  to  have  lent 
to  Villiers  unusual  strength.  Still,  Varney  watched 
him  with  a  coolness  which  showed  he  knew  such 
efforts  could  not  last,  when  suddenly,  in  making  an 
effort  which  was  evidently  intended  to  end  the  con 
test,  his  foot  slipped,  and  his  own  weight,  joined  to 
a  blow  from  Villiers,  prostrated  him  before  us. 

"  Raise  the  ruffian,"  said  Villiers.  "  Let  him 
come  on  again." 

The  group  around  the  fallen  man  hastened  to  obey 
the  direction,  surprised  that  he  showed  but  little 
signs  of  animation  and  utterly  astonished  at  the  re 
sult  of  the  contest. 

Chance,  however,  had  accomplished  more  than 
any  one  believed.  One  or  two  groans  issued  from 
Varney  as  they  raised  him ;  a  strong  convulsion 
shook  his  body,  and  then  the  sinking  head  and 


THE   HAZARD   TABLE.  169 

nerveless  arms  showed  but  too  plainly  that  the 
spirit  had  passed  into  the  presence  of  Him  who 
had  created  it. 

The  consternation  occasioned  by  the  discovery 
gave  an  interval  for  action.  I  seized  Villiers  by  the 
arm,  and  thrusting  a  pistol  into  his  hand,  while  I 
held  forth  another  myself,  dragged  him  to  the  door, 
and  whispered,  "  Fly  for  your  life  !  They  will  be 
upon  you  in  a  moment." 

I  spoke  to  one  who  heard  me  not ;  but  mechan 
ically  obeying  the  impulse,  he  had  descended  about 
half  way  down  the  stairs,  when  a  burst  of  execra 
tions  from  the  room  above,  followed  by  a  rush 
towards  the  door,  warned  me  that  we  had  not  a  mo 
ment  to  lose. 

I  gave  Villiers  a  violent  push  forward.  The  muffled 
door  below  gave  way  to  an  impetuosity  that  defied 
all  barriers.  The  astonished  watchman  yielded  to 
'the  summons  of  an  armed  and  apparently  desper 
ate  man.  The  outer  door  opened. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  I  shouted,  involuntarily,  though 
along  with  us  rushed  into  the  air  several  of  those 
who  had  been  above,  when  a  firm  grasp  was  laid  on 
my  collar,  and  I  found  that  we  were  in  the  hands  of 
a  strong  body  of  police  officers,  whom  the  noise  above 
had  summoned  to  the  spot. 

Some  of  them  made  their  way  up  stairs ;  the 
others  guarded  their  prisoners.  The  former  soon 
returned,  bringing  with  them  the  lifeless  body  of  Var- 
ney,  and  several  of  the  men  I  had  seen  in  the  hazard 
room.  The  rest,  in  the  confusion,  had  managed  to 


170  THE   HAZARD   TABLE. 

escape.     We  were  all  marched  to  the  police  office. 

Since  the  discovery  of  Varney's  death,  Villi.ers 
had  not  spoken ;  but  as  I  got  closer  to  him  in  the 
narrow  entrance  of  the  police  office,  I  could  hear 
him  muttering  to  himself,  "  Ruined,  aye,  ruined ! 
And  now  a  murderer.  Oh  God,  a  murderer !  " 

The  tone  was  so  hollow  that  I  could  scarcely  rec 
ognize  it,  but  I  had  little  time  for  thought.  An  ex 
amination  into  the  circumstances  was  immediately 
proceeded  with,  which  ended  in  my  liberation,  and 
in  the  detention  of  Villiers.  The  private  room  was 
allotted  to  him,  and  we  entered  together. 

He  threw  himself  on  a  chair  in  the  apartment, 
pressed  his  hands  convulsively  on  his  forehead,  and 
shrieked  in  tones  of  bitter  desolation,  "  My  God ! — 
my  mother!  Ellen  !  " 

I  drew  near  to  him,  and  placing  my  hand  on  his, 
said,  "  Villiers,  dear  Villiers,  recall  your  senses  ; 
be  yourself  and  all  will  yet  be  well." 

He  started  at  my  touch,  sprung  from  the  seat, 
and  with  all  the  violence  of  a  maniac  screamed,  "  Off! 
touch  me  not — it's  a  lie !  I  did  not  do  it.  Who 
says  so  ?  No,  no,  no  !  " 

The  excitement  had  exhausted  him,  and  again  he 
sank  back  on  the  chair ;  but  a  minute  had  scarcely 
elapsed  when  he  leaped  on  the  floor,  and  while  his 
whole  frame  shook  with  horror,  and  his  eyes  glared 
at  the  door,  as  if  he  saw  there  the  specter  of  the 
murdered  man,  he  shouted  !  "  Look,  look  !  there  he  is. 
See  the  blue  flames  !  He  beckons — he  seizes  me  ! 
Oh,  save — save — save  me  !  " 


THE   HAZARD   TABLE.  171 

But  why  should  I  recall  the  horrors  of  that  long 
night !  Fit  after  fit  followed  of  frantic  despair,  suc 
ceeded  by  the  weakness  of  exhaustion.  At  times  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  I,  with  the  aid  of  my  servant, 
(whom  I  had  sent  for)  could  restrain  him  from  some 
act  of  desperate  violence ;  whilst  at  other  periods 
he  sank  to  a  state  of  so  great  weakness  as  to  lie  in 
utter  insensibility  in  my  arms. 

During  the  few  intervals  of  collectedness  which  he 
enjoyed,  I  gathered  that  he  had  been  introduced  to 
the  hazard  table  several  months  before  by  a  mutual 
college  acquaintance  of  ours ;  that  he  had  gradually 
grown  more  and  more  fascinated  by  the  demon  of 
gambling ;  and,  finally,  that  for  the  last  five  days  he 
had  been  continually  engaged  at  play,  and  had  never 
rested  during  the  whole  of  that  time,  having  been 
wound  up,  by  repeated  losses,  to  such  a  pitch  of 
desperation,  as  to  be  insensible  to  the  progress  of 
time. 

Varney  had  been  the  principal  winner,  and  Vil- 
liers  more  than  once  had  reason  to  suspect  him  of 
unfair  play.  His  attempt  to  swindle  me  had  con 
vinced  him  that  those  suspicions  were  well  founded. 
I  had  witnessed  the  closing  scene. 

"  I  am  now,"  said  he,  "  utterly  ruined  ;  and,"  he 
slowly  added,  "  a  murderer !  " 

His  mother  and  sister  he  dared  not,  could  not 
meet.  Indeed,  it  was  evident  to  me  that  at  present 
he  was  unable  to  do  so  ;  for  the  very  idea  was  so 
distracting  to  him  that  convulsion  after  convulsion 
succeeded,  until,  completely  exhausted,  he  sank  into 


172  THE  HAZAKD   TABLE. 

a  broken  slumber,  interrupted  every  five  or  ten  min 
utes  by  the  agonies  of  remorse  and  despair,  as  the 
image  of  the  dead  Varney  seemed  to  flit  before 
his  view. 

Fever  and  delirium  succeeded.  Mind  and  body 
gave  way  together,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  I  fol 
lowed  to  the  grave  the  remains  of  him  for  whom  all 
who  knew  him  had  anticipated  a  long  career  of  hap 
piness  and  honor. 

My  friend,  my  friend !  How  bright  was  thy 
rising — how  dark  the  close  of  thy  life  ! 


BY   HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 

W  DO  believe  that  man  is  corrupt  enough,  but  some- 
«j»  thing  of  good  has  survived  his  wreck  ;  something 
of  evil  religion  has  restrained,  and  something  par 
tially  restored  ;  yet  I  look  upon  the  human  heart  as 
a  mountain  of  fire.  I  dread  its  crater.  I  tremble 
when  I  see  its  lava  roll  the  fiery  stream  ;  therefore 
I  am  the  more  glad  if  upon  the  old  crust  of  past 
eruptions  I  can  find  a  flower  springing  up.  A 
flower  in  a  howling  wilderness  is  yet  more  precious 
to  the  pilgrim,  because  the  lovely  tenant  of  desola 
tion.  So  far  from  rejecting  appearances  of  virtue  in 
the  corrupt  heart  of  a  depraved  race,  I  am  as  eager  to 
see  their  light  as  ever  mariner  was  to  see  a  star  on  a 
stormy  night. 

Moss  will  grow  upon  grave-stones,  the  ivy  will 
cling  to  the  mouldering  pile,  the  mistletoe  springs 
from  the  dying  branch  ;  and  God  be  praised,  some 
thing  green,  something  fair  to  the  sight,  and  grate 
ful  to  the  heart,  will  yet  twine  around  and  grow 
out  of  the  seams  and  cracks  of  the  desolate  temple 
of  the  human  heart ! 

Who   could   walk    through  Thebes  or  Palmyra, 


174  IDLENESS. 

and  there  survey  the  wide  w.aste  of  broken  arches, 
crumbled  altars,  fallen  pillars,  effaced  cornices,  top 
pling  walls,  and  crushed  statues,  with  no  feelings 
but  those  of  contempt  ?  Who,  unsorrowing,  could 
see  the  stork's  nest  upon  the  carved  pillar,  satyrs 
dancing  on  marble  pavements,  hateful  scorpions 
nestling  where  beauty  once  dwelt,  and  dragons  the 
sole  tenants  of  royal  palaces  V  Amid  such  melan 
choly  magnificence,  even  the  misanthrope  might 
weep  !  Here  and  there  an  altar  stood  unbruised, 
or  a  graven  column  unblighted,  or  a  statue  nearly 
perfect — he  might  well  feel  love  for  a  man-wrought 
stone  so  beautiful,  when  all  else  is  so  dreary  and  des 
olate.  Thus,  though  man  is  in  a  desolate  city,  and 
his  passions  are  as  the  wild  beasts  of  the  wilderness 
howling  in  king's  palaces,  yet  he  is  God's  workman 
ship,  and  a  thousand  touches  of  exquisite  beauty  re 
main.  Since  Christ  hath  put  his  sovereign  hand  to 
restore  man's  ruin,  many  points  are  remoulded,  and 
the  fair  form  of  a  new  fabric  already  appears  grow 
ing  from  the  ruins,  and  the  first  faint  flame  is  glim 
mering  upon  a  restored  altar. 

It  is  impossible  to  indulge  in  such  habitual  sever 
ity  of  opinion  upon  our  fellow-men,  without  injuring 
the  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  our  own  feelings.  A 
man  will  be  what  his  most  cherished  feelings  are.  If 
he  encourage  appetite,  he  will  not  be  far  from 
beastly ;  if  he  encourage  a  noble  generosity,  such 
will  he  be  ;  if  he  nurse  bitter  and  envenomed  thought, 
his  own  spirit  will  absorb  the  poison,  and  he  will 
crawl  among  men  as  a  burnished  adder,  whose  life  is 


IDLENESS.  175 

mischief,  whose  errand  is  death.  Although  exper 
ience  should  correct  the  indiscriminate  confidence 
of  the  young,  no  experience  should  render  them 
callous  to  goodness  wherever  seen.  He  who  hunts 
for  flowers,  will  find  flowers  ;  but  he  who  hunts  for 
vermin,  will  find  vermin;  and  he  who  loves  weeds, 
may  find  weeds.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  no 
man,  who  is  not  himself  mortally  diseased,  will  have 
a  relish  for  disease  in  others.  A  swollen  wretch, 
blotched  all  over  with  leprosy,  may  grin  hideously 
at  every  wart  or  excrescence  upon  beauty.  A  whole 
some  man  will  be  pained  at  it,  and  seek  not  to  notice 
it.  Reject  then  the  morbid  ambition  of  the  Cynic, 
or  cease  to  call  yourself  a  man. 

I  fear  that  few  villages  exist  without  a  specimen 
of  the  Libertine.  He  is  a  beast  put  by  accident  into 
human  form.  His  errand  into  this  world  is  to  explore 
every  depth  of  sensuality,  and  collect  upon  himself  the 
foulness  of  every  one.  He  is  proud  to  be  vile  ;  his  am 
bition  is  to  be  viler  than  other  men.  Were  we  not  con 
fronted  almost  daily  by  such  wretches,  it  would  be 
hard  to  believe  that  any  could  exist  to  whom  purity 
and  decency  were  a  burden,  and  only  corruption 
a  delight.  This  creature  has  changed  his  nature, 
until  only  that  which  disgusts  a  pure  mind  pleases 
his.  He  is  lured  by  the  scent  of  carrion.  His 
coarse  feelings,  stimulated  by  gross  excitements, 
are  insensible  to  delicacy.-  The  exquisite  bloom, 
the  dew  and  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  the 
heart,  which  delights  both  good  men  and  God 
himself,  he  gazes  upon  as  a  Behemoth  would  gaze 


176  IDLENESS. 

enraptured  upon  a  prairie  of  flowers.  It  is  so  much 
pasture.  The  forms,  the  odors,  the  hues,  are  only  a 
mouthful  for  his  terrible  appetite.  Therefore  his 
breath  blights  every  innocent  thing.  He  sneers  at 
the  mention  of  purity,  and  leers  in  the  very  face 
of  Virtue,  as  though  she  was  herself  corrupt  if  the 
truth  were  known.  He  assures  the  credulous  dis 
ciple  that  there  is  no  purity  ;  that  its  appearances 
are  only  the  veils  which  cover  indulgences — the 
paint  which  hides  decay.  Nay,  he  solicits  praise  for 
the  very  openness  of  his  evil,  and  tells  the  listener 
that  all  act  as  he  acts,  but  only  few  are  cour 
ageous  enough  to  own  it.  Thus  his  shameless  ex 
cess  is  sanctified  with  sacred  names.  But  the  utter 
most  parts  of  depravity  are  laid  open  only  when 
several  such  monsters  meet  together,  and  vie  with 
each  other,  as  we  might  suppose  shapeless  men-mon 
sters  disport  in  the  slimiest  ooze  of  the  ocean.  They 
dive  in  fierce  rivalry,  which  shall  reach  the  most  in 
fernal  depths  and  bring  up  the  blackest  sediments.  It 
makes  the  blood  of  an  honest  man  run  cold,  to  hear 
but  the  echo  of  the  shameless  rehearsals  of  their 
salacious  enterprises.  Each  strives  to  tell  a  blacker 
tale  than  the  other.  When  the  abomination  of  their 
actual  life  is  not  damnable  enough  to  satisfy  the  am 
bition  of  their  unutterable  corruption,  they  devise  in 
their  imagination  scenes  yet  more  flagrant ;  swear 
that  they  have  performed  them,  and  when  they  separ 
ate,  each  strives  to  make  his  lying  boastings  true. 
It  would  seem  as  if  miscreants  so  loathsome  could 
have  no  power  of  temptation  upon  the  young.  Ex- 


IDLENESS.  177 

perience  shows  that  the  worst  men  are  often  the  most 
skillful  in  touching  the  springs  of  human  action.  A 
young  man  knows  little  of  life  ;  less  of  himself.  He 
feels  in  his  bosom  impulses,  wild  desires,  restless 
cravings,  he  can  hardly  tell  for  what ;  a  somber  melan 
choly  when  all  are  gay ;  a  violent  exhilaration  when 
others  are  sober.  These  wild  gushes  of  feeling  pe 
culiar  to  youth  the  sagacious  tempter  has  felt,  has 
studied,  has  practiced  upon,  until  he  can  sit  before 
that  most  capacious  organ,  the  human  mind,  know 
ing  every  stop  and  all  the  combinations,  and  compe 
tent  to  touch  every  note  throughout  the  diapason. 
As  a  serpent  deceived  the  purest  of  mortals,  so  now 
a  beast  may  mislead  their  posterity.  He  begins 
afar  off.  He  decries  the  virtue  of  all  men ;  studies 
to  produce  a  doubt  that  any  are  under  self-restraint. 
He  unpacks  his  filthy  stories,  plays  off  the  fireworks 
of  his  corrupt  imagination — its  blue-lights,  its  red- 
lights,  and  green-lights,  and  sparkle-spitting  lights  ; 
and  edging  in  upon  the  yielding  youth,  who  begins 
to  wonder  at  his  experience,  he  boasts  his  first  ex 
ploits,  he  hisses  at  the  purity  of  woman.  He  grows 
yet  bolder,  tells  more  wicked  deeds,  and  invents 
worse  even  than  he  ever  performed,  though  he  has 
performed  worse  than  good  men  ever  thought  of.  All 
thoughts,  all  feelings,  all  ambitions,  are  merged  in  one, 
and  that  the  lowest,  vilest,  most  detestable  ambition. 
Had  I  a  son  of  years,  I  could,  with  thanksgiving, 
see  him  go  down  to  the  grave,  rather  than  see  him 
fall  into  the  maw  of  this  most  besotted  devil.  I  would 
rather  see  him  rot  in  a  lazar  house  than  putrefy  with 
12 


178  IDLENESS. 

such  corruption.  The  plague  is  mercy,  the  cholera 
is  love,  the  deadliest  fever  is  refreshment  to  man's 
body,  in  comparison  with  this  epitome  and  essence  of 
moral  disease.  He  lives  among  men,  Hell's  ambas 
sador,  with  full  credentials  ;  nor  can  we  conceive 
that  there  should  be  need  of  any  other  fiend  to  per 
fect  the  work  of  darkness,  while  he  carries  his  body 
among  us,  stuffed  with  every  pestilent  drug  of  cor 
ruption.  The  heart  of  every  virtuous  young  man 
should  loathe  him.  If  he  speaks,  you  should  as  soon 
hear  a  wolf  bark.  Gather  around  you  the  venom 
ous  snake,  the  poisonous  toad,  the  fetid  vulture,  the 
prowling  hyena,  and  their  company  would  be  an 
honor  to  you  above  his,  for  they,  at  least,  remain  with 
in  their  own  nature  ;  but  he  goes  out  of  his  nature 
that  he  may  become  more  beastly  than  it  is  possible 
for  a  beast  to  be. 

He  is  hateful  to  religion,  hateful  to  virtue,  hateful 
to  decency,  hateful  to  the  coldest  morality.  The 
stenchful  ichor  of  his  ulcerated  heart  has  flowed  over 
every  feeling  of  his  nature,  and  left  them  as  the 
burning  lava  leaves  the  garden,  the  orchard,  and  the 
vineyard.  And  it  is  a  wonder  that  the  bolt  of  God, 
which  crushed  Sodom,  does  not  slay  him.  It  is  a 
wonder  that  the  earth  does  not  refuse  the  burden, 
and  open  and  swallow  him  up.  I  do  not  fear  that 
the  young  will  be  undermined  by  his  direct  assaults. 
But  some  will  imitate,  and  their  example  will  be 
again  feebly  imitated,  and  finally  a  remote  circle  of 
disciples  will  spread  the  diluted  contagion  among  the 
virtuous.  This  man  will  be  the  fountain-head,  and 


IDLENESS.  179 

though  none  will  come  to  drink  at  a  hot  spring,  yet 
further  down,  along  the  stream  it  sends  out,  will  be 
found  many  scooping  from  its  waters. 

I  have  described  the  devil  in  his  native  form,  but 
he  sometimes  appears  as  angel  of  light.  There  is 
a  polished  libertine,  in  manners  studiously  refined, 
in  taste  faultless ;  his  face  is  mild  and  engaging,  his 
words  drop  as  purely  as  new  made  honey.  In 
general  society  he  would  rather  attract  attention  as 
a  model  of  purity,  and  suspicion  herself  could 
hardly  look  askance  upon  him.  Under  this  brilliant 
exterior,  his  heart  is  like  a  sepulcher  full  of  unclean- 
ness.  Contrasted  with  the  gross  libertine,  it  would 
not  be  supposed  that  he  had  a  thought  in  common 
with  him.  If  his  heart  could  be  opened  to  our  eye 
as  it  is  to  God's,  we  should  perceive  scarcely  dissim 
ilar  feelings  in  respect  to  appetite.  Professing  un 
bounded  admiration  of  virtue  in  general,  he  leaves 
not,  in  private,  a  point  untransgressed.  His  read 
ing  has  culled  every  glowing  picture  of  amorous 
poets,  every  tempting  scene  of  loose  dramatists  and 
looser  novelists.  Enriched  by  these,  his  imagina 
tion,  like  a  rank  soil,  is  overgrown  with  a  prodigal 
luxuriance  of  poisonous  herbs  and  deadly  flowers. 
Men  such  as  this  man  frequently  aspire  to  be  the 
censors  of  morality.  They  are  hurt  at  the  injudi 
cious  reprehensions  of  vice  from  the  pulpit.  They 
make  great  outcry  when  plain  words  are  employed 
to  denounce  base  things.  They  are  astonishingly 
sensitive  and  fearful  lest  good  men  should  soil  their 
hands  with  too  much  meddling  with  evil.  Their  cries 


180  IDLENESS. 

are  not  the  evidence  of  sensibility  to  virtue,  but  of 
too  lively  a  sensibility  of  vice.  Sensibility  is  often 
only  the  flattering  of  an  impure  heart. 

At  the  very  time  that  their  voice  is  ringing  an 
alarm  against  immoral  reformations,  they  are  secretly 
skeptical  of  every  tenet  of  virtue,  and  practically 
unfaithful  to  every  one.  Of  these  two  libertines,  the 
most  refined  is  the  most  dangerous.  The  one  is  a 
rattlesnake  which  carries  its  warning  with  it ;  the 
other,  hiding  his  burnished  scales  in  the  grass, 
skulks  to  perform  unsuspected  deeds  in  darkness. 
The  one  is  the  visible  fog  and  miasra  of  the  morass ; 
the  other  is  the  serene  air  of  a  tropical  city,  which, 
though  so  brilliant,  is  loaded  with  invisible  pestilence. 

The  Politician.  If  there  be  a  man  on  earth  whose 
character  should  be  framed  of  the  most  sterling  hon 
esty,  and  whose  conduct  should  conform  to  the  most 
scrupulous  morality,  it  is  the  man  who  administers 
public  affairs.  The  most  romantic  notions  of  integ 
rity  are  here  not  extravagant.  As,  under  our  in 
stitutions,  public  men  will  be,  upon  the  whole,  fair 
exponents  of  the  character  of  their  constituents,  the 
plainest  way  to  secure  public  men  is  to  inspire  those 
who  make  them  with  a  right  understanding  of  what 
political  character  ought  to  be.  Young  men  should 
be  prompted  to  discriminate  between  the  spurious 
and  the  real ;  the  artful  and  the  honest ;  the  wise  and 
the  cunning  ;  the  patriotic  and  the  pretender. 

I  will  sketch  the  Demagogue.  The  lowest  of 
politicians  is  that  man  who  seeks  to  gratify  an  inva 
riable  selfishness  by  pretending  to  seek  the  public 


IDLENESS.  181 

good.  For  a  profitable  popularity,  he  accommodates 
himself  to  all  opinions,  to  all  dispositions,  to  every 
side,  and  to  each  prejudice.  He  is  a  mirror,  with 
no  face  of  his  own,  but  a  smooth  surface,  from  which 
every  man  of  ten  thousand  may  see  himself  reflected. 
He  glides  from  man  to  man,  coinciding  with  their 
views,  pretending  to  their  feelings,  simulating  their 
tastes  ;  with  this  one  he  hates  a  man  ;  with  that  one 
he  loves  the  same  man  ;  he  favors  a  law,  and  he  dis 
likes  it ;  he  approves,  and  opposes  ;  he  is  on  both 
sides  at  once,  and  seemingly  wishes  that  he  could 
be  on  one  side  more  than  on  both  sides  ;  he  attends 
meetings  to  suppress  intemperance — but  at  elections 
makes  every  grog-shop  free  to  all  drinkers.  He  can 
with  equal  relish  plead  most  eloquently  for  temper 
ance,  or  toss  off  a  dozen  glasses  in  a  dirty  grocery. 
He  thinks  that  there  is  a  time  for  everything,  and 
therefore,  at  one  time  he  swears,  and  jeers,  and  leers 
with  a  carousing  crew ;  and  at  another  time,  having 
happily  been  converted,  he  displays  the  various 
features  of  devotion.  Indeed,  he  is  a  capricious 
Christian,  an  epitome  of  faith.  He  piously  asks  the 
class-leader  after  the  welfare  of  his  charge,  for  he  was 
always  a  Methodist,  and  always  shall  be  until  he 
meets  a  Presbyterian ;  then  he  is  a  Presbyterian, 
old  school  or  new,  as  the  case  requires.  However, 
as  he  is  not  a  bigot,  he  can  afford  to  be  a  Baptist,  in 
a  good  Baptist  neighborhood,  and  with  a  wink  he  tells 
the  zealous  elder  that  he  never  had  one  of  his  chil 
dren  baptized,  not  he.  He  whispers  to  the  reformer 
that  he  abhors  all  creeds  but  Baptism  and  the  Bible. 


182  IDLENESS. 

After  all  this,  room  will  be  found  in  his  heart  for  the 
fugitive  sects  also,  which  come  and  go  like  clouds  in 
a  summer  sky.  His  flattering  attention  at  church 
edifies  the  simple-hearted  preacher,  who  admires 
that  a  plain  sermon  should  make  a  man  whisper 
Amen,  and  weep,  or  at  least  wipe  his  eyes  to  coax 
a  tear.  Upon  the  stump  his  tact  is  no  less  rare.  He 
roars  and  bawls  with  courageous  plainness,  on  points 
where  all  agree  ;  but  on  subjects  where  men  differ, 
his  meaning  is  nicely  balanced  on  a  pivot,  that  it  may 
dip  either  way.  He  depends  for  success  chiefly 
upon  humorous  stories.  A  glowing  patriot  telling 
stories  is  a  dangerous  antagonist ;  for  it  is  hard  to  ex 
pose  the  fallacy  of  a  hearty  laugh.  Men  convulsed 
with  merriment  are  slow  to  perceive  in  what  way 
an  argument  is  a  reply  to  a  story. 

Perseverance,  effrontery,  good-nature,  and  versa 
tile  cunning  have  advanced  many  a  bad  man  higher 
than  a  good  man  could  attain.  Men  will  admit  that 
he  has  not  a  single  moral  virtue,  but  he  is  smart. 
Smart  ?  It  does  not  occur  to  many  that  there  is 
much  difference  between  men  and  game,  or  that 
officers  and  laws  are  much  more  than  beaver-traps, 
or  public  men  very  different  from  smart  trappers. 

e  object  to  no  man  for  amusing  himself  at  the  fer 
tile  resources  of  the  politician  here  painted,  for 
sober  men  are  sometimes  pleased  with  the  grimaces 
and  mischievous  tricks  of  a  versatile  monkey ;  but 
would  it  not  be  strange  indeed  if  they  should  select 
him  for  a  ruler,  or  make  him  an  exemplar  to  their 
sons? 


IDLENESS.  183 

The  children  of  rich  parents  are  apt  to  be  reared 
in  indolence.  The  ordinary  motives  to  industry  are 
wanting,  and  the  temptations  to  sloth  are  multiplied. 
Other  men  labor  to  provide  a  support;  to  amass 
wealth  ;  to  secure  homage  ;  to  obtain  power  ;  to  mul 
tiply  the  elegant  products  of  art. 

The  child  of  affluence  inherits  these  things.  Why 
should  he  labor  who  may  command  universal  service, 
whose  money  subsidizes  the  inventions  of  art,  ex 
hausts  the  luxuries  of  society,  and  makes  rarities 
common  by  their  abundance  ?  Only  the  blind  would 
not  see  that  riches  and  ruin  run  in  one  channel  to 
prodigal  children.  The  most  rigorous  regimen,  the 
most  confirmed  industry,  and  steadfast  morality  can 
alone  disarm  inherited  wealth,  and  reduce  it  to  a 
blessing.  The  profligate  wretch,  who  fondly  watches 
his  father's  advancing  decrepitude,  and  secretly 
curses  the  lingering  steps  of  death,  (seldom  too  slow 
except  to  hungry  heirs)  at  last  is  overblessed  in  the 
tidings  that  the  loitering  work  is  done,  and  the  es 
tate  is  his.  When  the  golden  shower  has  fallen,  he 
rules  as  a  prince  in  a  court  of  expectant  parasites. 
All  the  sluices  by  which  pleasurable  vice  drains  an 
estate  are  opened  wide.  A  few  years  complete  the 
ruin.  The  hopeful  heir,  avoided  by  all  whom  he  has 
helped,  ignorant  of  useful  labor,  and  scorning  a 
knowledge  of  it,  fired  with  an  incurable  appetite  for 
vicious  excitement,  sinks  steadily  down,  a  profligate, 
a  wretch,  a  villain,  a  scoundrel,  a  convicted  felon. 

Let  parents  who  hate  their  offspring  rear  them  to 
hate  labor  and  to  inherit  riches,  and  before  long  they 


184  IDLENESS. 

will  be  stung  by  every  vice,  racked  by  its  poison,  and 
damned  by  its  penalty. 

Another  cause  of  idleness  is  found  in  the  secret 
effects  of  youthful  indulgence.  The  purest  pleasures 
lie  within  the  circle  of  useful  occupation.  But  the 
golden  sand  of  pleasure  is  scattered  along  the  courses 
of  all  the  labors  of  love,  or  support,  by  which  the 
family  subsists.  Mere  pleasure,  sought  outside  of 
usefulness — existing  by  itself — is  fraught  with  poison. 
When  its  exhilaration  has  thoroughly  kindled  the 
mind,  the  passions  thenceforth  refuse  a  simple  food  ; 
they  crave  and  require  an  excitement  higher  than 
any  ordinary  occupation  can  give. 

After  reveling  all  night  in  wine  dreams,  or  amid 
the  fascinations  of  the  dance,  or  the  deception  of  the 
drama,  what  has  the  dull  store,  or  the  dusty  shop, 
which  can  continue  the  pulse  at  this  fever  heat  of  de 
light  ? 

The  face  of  Pleasure,  to  the  youthful  imagination, 
is  the  face  of  an  angel,  a  paradise  of  smiles,  a  home 
of  love ;  while  the  rugged  face  of  Industry,  em 
browned  by  toil,  is  dull  and  repulsive  ;  but  at  the 
end  it  is  not  so. 

These  are  harlot  charms  which  Pleasure  wears. 
At  last,  when  Industry  shall  put  on  her  beautiful 
garments,  and  rest  in  the  palace  which  her  own 
hands  have  built,  Pleasure,  blotched  and  diseased 
with  indulgences,  shall  lie  down  and  die  upon  the 
dunghill. 

Example  leads  to  idleness.  The  children  of  in 
dustrious  parents,  at  the  sight  of  vagrant  rovers, 


IDLENESS.  185 

seeking  their  sports  wherever  they  will,  disrelish 
labor,  and  envy  this  unrestrained  leisure.  At  the 
first  relaxation  of  parental  vigilance,  they  shrink 
from  their  odious  tasks.  Idleness  is  begun  when 
labor  is  a  burden  and  industry  a  bondage,  and  only 
idle  relaxation  a  pleasure. 

The  example  of  political  men,  office-seekers,  and 
public  officers,  is  not  usually  conducive  to  industry. 
The  idea  insensibly  fastens  itself  upon  the  mind  that 
greatness  and  hard  labor  are  not  companions.  The 
experience  of  youth  imagines  that  great  men  are 
men  of  great  leisure.  They  see  them  much  in  pub 
lic,  much  applauded,  and  greatly  followed.  How 
disgusting  in  contrast  is  a  mechanic's  life,  a  tinker 
ing  shop — dark  and  smutty  is  the  only  theater  of  his 
exploits ;  and  labor  which  covers  him  with  sweat,  and 
fills  him  with  weariness,  brings  neither  notice  nor 
praise. 

The  ambitious  apprentice,  sighing  over  his  soiled 
hands,  hates  his  ignoble  work  ;  neglecting  it,  he  as 
pires  to  better  things — plots  in  a  caucus,  declaims  in 
a  bar-room,  fights  in  a  grog-shop,  and  dies  in  a  ditch. 

But  the  indolence  begotten  by  venal  ambition  must 
not  be  so  easily  dropped.  At  those  periods  of  oc 
casional  disasters,  when  embarrassments  cloud  the 
face  of  commerce,  and  trade  drags  heavily,  sturdy 
laborers  forsake  industrial  occupations,  and  petition 
for  office. 

Had  I  a  son  able  to  gain  a  livelihood  by  toil,  I 
had  rather  bury  him,  than  witness  his  beggarly  sup 
plications  for  office  ;  sneaking  along  the  path  of  men's 


186  IDLENESS. 

passions  to  gain  his  advantage  ;  holding  in  the  breath 
of  his  honest  opinions  ;  breathing  feigned  words  of 
flattery  to  hungry  ears,  popular  or  official ;  and 
crawling,  viler  than  a  snake,  through  all  the  unmanly 
courses  by  which  ignoble  wretches  purloin  the  votes 
of  the  dishonest,  the  drunken,  and  the  vile. 

For  a  farthing  pittance  of  official  salary,  for  the 
miserable  fees  of  a  constable's  office,  for  the  par 
ings  and  perquisites  of  any  deputyship,  a  hundred 
men  in  every  village  rush  forward — scrambling, 
jostling,  crowding — each  more  obsequious  than  the 
other  to  seek  the  hand  that  holds  the  omnipotent  vote 
for  the  starveling  office.  The  most  supple  cunning 
gains  the  prize.  Of  the  disappointed  crowd,  a  few, 
rebuked  by  their  sober  reflections,  go  back  to  their 
honest  trade,  ashamed  and  cured  of  office  seeking. 
But  the  majority  grumble  for  a  day,  then  prick  forth 
their  ears,  arrange  their  feline  arts,  and  mouse  it 
again  for  another  office. 

The  general  appetite  for  office,  and  dislike  for  in 
dustrial  callings,  is  a  prolific  source  of  idleness ;  and 
it  would  be  well  for  the  honor  of  young  men  if  they 
were  bred  to  regard  office  as  fit  only  for  those  who 
have  clearly  shown  themselves  able  and  willing  to 
support  their  families  without  it.  No  office  can 
make  a  worthless  man  respectable ;  and  a  man  of 
integrity,  thrift,  and  religion  has  name  enough  with 
out  badge  or  office. 

Men  become  indolent  through  reverses  of  fortune. 
Surely,  despondency  is  a  grievous  thing,  and  a  heavy 
load  to  bear.  To  see  disaster  and  wreck  in  the  pres- 


IDLENESS.  187 

ent,  and  no  light  in  the  future,  but  only  storms, 
lurid  by  the  contrast  of  past  prosperity,  and  grow 
ing  darker  as  they  advance  ;  to  wear  a  constant  ex 
pectation  of  woe  like  a  girdle  ;  to  see  want  at  the 
door,  imperiously  knocking,  while  there  is  no  strength 
to  repel,  or  courage  to  bear  its  tyranny  ;  indeed,  this 
is  dreadful  enough.  But  there  is  a  thing  more 
dreadful.  It  is  more  dreadful  if  the  man  is  wrecked 
with  his  fortune.  Can  anything  be  more  poignant 
in  anticipation  than  one's  own  self,  unnerved,  cowed 
down,  and  slackened  to  utter  pliancy,  and  helplessly 
drifting  down  the  troubled  sea  of  life  ? 

Of  all  things  on  earth,  next  to  his  God,  a  broken 
man  should  cling  to  a  courageous  industry.  If  it 
brings  nothing  back,  and  saves  nothing,  it  will  save 
him.  To  be  pressed  down  by  adversity  has  nothing , 
in  it  of  a  disgrace  ;  but  it  is  disgraceful  to  lie  down 
under  it  like  a  supple  dog.  Indeed,  to  stand  com 
posedly  in  the  storm,  amidst  its  rage  and  wild  dev 
astation  ;  to  let  it  beat  over  you,  and  roar  around 
you,  and  pass  by  you,  and  leave  you  undismayed — 
this  is  to  be  a  man.  Adversity  is  the  mint  in  which 
God  stamps  upon  us  his  image  and  superscription. 
In  this  matter,  man  may  learn  of  insects.  The  ant 
will  repair  his  dwelling  as  often  as  the  mischievous 
foot  crushes  it ;  the  spider  will  exhaust  life  itself  be 
fore  he  will  live  without  a  web  ;  the  bee  can  be  de 
coyed  from  his  labor  neither  by  plenty  nor  scarcity. 
If  summer  be  abundant  it  toils  none  the  less  ;  if  it 
be  parsimonious  of  flowers,  the  tiny  laborer  sweeps 
a  wider  circle,  and  by  industry  repairs  the  frugality 
of  the  season. 


DISHONESTY. 


extraordinary  circumstances  can  give  the 
appearance  of  dishonesty  to  an  honest  man. 
Usually  not  to  seem  honest  is  not  to  be  so.  The  qual 
ity  must  not  be  doubtful  like  the  twilight,  lingering 
between  night  and  day,  and  taking  hues  from  both ; 
it  must  be  daylight,  clear  and  effulgent.  This  is  the 
doctrine  of  the  Bible:  "  Providing  for  honest  things 
not  only  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord,  but  also  in  the 
sight  of  men."  If  the  needle  traverses  in  the  com 
pass,  you  may  be  sure  something  has  attracted  it ; 
and  so  good  men's  opinions  will  point  steadily  to  an 
honest  man,  nor  vibrate  without  a  cause.  In  gen 
eral,  it  may  be  said  that  no  one  has  honesty  without 
dross  until  he  has  honesty  without  suspicion. 

We  are  passing  through  times  upon  which  the 
seeds  of  dishonesty  have  been  sown  broadcast,  and 
they  have  brought  forth  an  hundred-fold.  These 
times  will  pass  away,  but  like  ones  will  come  again. 
As  physicians  study  the  causes  and  record  the  phe 
nomena  of  plagues  and  pestilences,  to  draw  from 
them  an  antidote  against  their  recurrence,  so 
should  we  leave  to.  another  generation*  a  his- 


DISHONESTY.  189 

\ 

tory  of  moral  plagues,  as  the  best  antidote  to  their 
recurring  malignity. 

Upon  a  land  capacious  beyond  measure,  whose 
prodigal  soil  rewards  labor  with  an  unharvestable 
abundance  of  exuberant  fruits,  occupied  by  a  people 
signalized  by  enterprise  and  industry,  there  came  a 
summer  of  prosperity,  which  lingered  so  long  and 
shone  so  brightly  that  men  forgot  that  winter  would 
ever  come.  Each  day  grew  brighter.  No  reins 
were  put  upon  the  imagination.  Its  dreams  passed 
for  realities.  Even  sober  men,  touched  with  wild- 
ness,  seemed  to  expect  a  realization  of  oriental 
tales.  Upon  •  this  bright  day  came  sudden  frost, 
storms,  and  blight. 

Men  awoke  from  gorgeous  dreams  in  the  midst  of 
desolation.  The  harvests  of  years  were  swept  away 
in  a  day.  The  strongest  firms  were  rent  as  easily 
as  the  oak  by  lightning.  Speculating  companies 
were  dispersed  as  seared  leaves  from  a  tree  in 
autumn.  Merchants  were  ruined  by  thousands ; 
clerks  turned  adrift  by  ten  thousand.  Mechanics 
were  left  in  idleness.  Farmers  sighed  over  flocks 
and  wheat  as  useless  as  the  stones  and  dirt.  The 
wide  sea  of  commerce  was  stagnant.  Upon  the 
realm  of  industry  settled  down  a  sullen  lethargy. 

Out  of  this  reverse  swarmed  an  unnumjbered  host 
of  dishonest  men,  like  vermin  from  a  carcass,  or 
wolves  and  hyenas  from  a  battle-ground.  Banks 
were  exploded  or  robbed  ;  or,  fleeced  by  astounding 
forgeries,  mighty,  without  cohesion,  went  to  pieces. 

The  world  looked  upon  a  continent  of  inexhaust- 


190  DISHONESTY. 

ible  fertility  (whose  harvests  had  glutted  the  mar 
kets  and  rotted  in  disuse)  filled  with  lamentation, 
and  its  inhabitants  wandering  like  bereaved  citizens 
among  the  ruins  of  an  earthquake,  mourning  for 
children,  for  houses  crushed,  and  for  property  buried 
forever. 

That  no  measure  might  be  put  to  the  calamity, 
the  Church  of  God,  which  rises  a  stately  tower  of  ref- 
fuge  to  desponding  men,  seemed  now  to  have  lost  its 
power  of  protection.  When  the  solemn  voice  of  re 
ligion  should  have  gone  over  the  land,  as  the  call  of 
God  to  guilty  men  to  seek  in  him  their  strength  ;  in 
this  time,  when  religion  should  have  restored  sight  to 
the  blind,  made  the  lame  to  walk,  and  bound  up  the 
broken-hearted,  she  was  herself  mourning  in  sack 
cloth.  Out  of  her  courts  came  the  noise  of  warring 
sects ;  some  contending  against  others  with  a  war 
fare  disgraceful  to  pirates ;  and  some,  possessed  of 
a  demon,  wallowed  upon  the  ground,  foaming  and 
rending  themselves.  In  a  time  of  panic  and  disas 
ter,  and  distress  and  crime,  the  fountain  which  should 
have  been  for  the  healing  of  men  cast  up  its  sedi 
ments,  and  gave  forth  a  bitter  stream  of  pollution. 

In  every  age,  a  universal  pestilence  has  hushed 
the  clamor  of  contention  and  cooled  the  heats  of 
parties ;  but  the  greatness  of  our  national  calamity 
seemed  only  to  enkindle  the  fury  of  political  parties. 
Contentions  never  ran  with  such  deep  streams  and 
impetuous  currents  as  amidst  the  ruin  of  our  industry 
and  prosperity.  States  were  greater  debtors  to 
foreign  powers  than  they  were  to  each  other.  Both 


DISHONESTY.  191 

States  and  citizens  shrank  back  from  their  debts, 
and  yet  more  dishonest,  from  the  taxes  neces 
sary  to  discharge  them.  The  general  government 
did  not  escape,  but  lay  becalmed,  or  pursued  its 
course  like  a  ship,  at  every  furlong  touching  the 
rooks  or  beating  against  the  sands.  New  questions 
of  exciting  qualities  perplexed  the  realms  of  legisla 
tion  and  of  morals.  To  all  this  must  be  added  a 
manifest  decline 'of  family  government ;  an  increase 
of  the  ratio  of  popular  ignorance  ;  a  decrease  of 
reverence  for  law,  and  an  effeminate  administration 
of  it.  Popular  tumults  have  been  as  frequent  as 
freshets  in  our  rivers,  and,  like  them,  have  swept 
over  the  land  with  desolation,  and  left  their  filthy 
slime  in  the  highest  places — upon  the  press,  upon 
the  legislature,  in  the  halls  of  our  courts,  and  even 
upon  the  sacred  bench  of  justice.  If  unsettled  times 
foster  dishonesty,  it  should  have  flourished  among 
us.  And  it  has. 

Our  nation  must  expect  a  periodical  return  of  such 
convulsions ;  but  experience  should  steadily  curtail 
their  ravages  and  remedy  their  immoral  tendencies. 
Young  men  have  before  them  lessons  of  manifold 
wisdom,  taught  by  the  severest  of  masters — :experi- 
ence.  They  should  be  studied  ;  and  that  they  may 
be,  I  shall  from  the  general  survey  turn  to  a  specific 
enumeration  of  the  causes  of  dishonesty. 

Some  men  find  in  their  bosoms,  from  the  first,  a 
vehement  inclination  to  dishonest  ways :  knavish 
propensities  are  inherent — born  with  the  child,  and 
transmissible  from  parent  to  son.  The  children  of  a 


192  DISHONESTY. 

sturdy  thief,  if  taken  from  him  at  birth  and  reared 
by  honest  men,  would  doubtless  have  to  contend 
against  a  strongly  dishonest  inclination.  Foundlings 
and  orphans,  under  public  charitable  charge,  are 
more  apt  to  become  vicious  than  other  children. 
They  are  usually  born  of  low  and  vicious  parents, 
and  inherit  their  parents'  propensities.  Only  the 
most  thorough  moral  training  can  overrule  this  innate 
depravity. 

A  child,  naturally  fair-minded,  may  become  dis 
honest  by  paternal  example.  He  is  early  taught  to 
be  sharp  in  bargains,  and  vigilant  for  every  advan 
tage.  Little  is  said  about  honesty,  and  much  about 
shrewd  traffic.  A  dextrous  trick  becomes  a  family 
anecdote  ;  visitors  are  regaled  with  the  boy's  preco 
cious  keenness.  Hearing  the  praise  of  his  exploits, 
he  studies  craft,  and  seeks  parental  admiration  by 
adroit  knaveries.  He  is  taught,  for  his  safety,  he 
must  not  range  beyond  the  law  ;  that  would  be  un 
profitable.  He  calculates  his  morality  thus  :  '•'•Legal 
honesty  is  the  best  policy.  Dishonesty,  then,  is  a  bad 
bargain,  and  therefore  wrong ;  everything  is  wrong 
that  is  unthrifty."  Whatever  profit  breaks  no  legal 
statute,  though  it  is  gained  by  falsehood,  by  unfair 
ness,  by  gloss,  through  dishonor,  unkindness,  and  an 
unscrupulous  conscience,  he  considers  fair,  and  says  : 
The  law  allows  it.  Men  may  spend  a  long  time 
without  an  indictable  action,  and  without  an  honest 
one.  No  law  can  reach  the  insidious  ways  of  subtle 
craft.  The  law  allows  and  religion  forbids  men  to 
profit  by  others'  misfortune  ;  to  prowl  for  prey  among 


DISHONESTY.  193 

the  ignorant ;  to  overreach  the  simple  ;  to  suck  the 
life-drops  from  the  bleeding ;  to  hover  over  men  as 
a  vulture  over  herds,  swooping  down  upon  the  weak, 
the  struggling,  and  the  weary.  The  infernal  craft 
of  cunning  men  turns  the  law  itself  to  piracy,  and 
works-  outrageous  frauds  in  the  halls  of  courts,  by 
the  decision  of  judges,  and  under  the  seal  of  justice. 

13 


NEW  ENGLAND 


A  GRAPHIC  SKETCH. 

'HE  custom  of  celebrating  the  ingathering  of  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  has  obtained  amongst  nearly 
all  civilized  nations.  It  seems  almost  intuitive  on 
receiving  the  supply  on  which  we  are  to  depend  for 
support,  until  the  yielding  earth  shall  give  her  in 
crease,  to  mark  the  event  by  some  outward  demon 
strations  of  joy. 

The  manner  and  time  of  such  celebrations  are  as 
various  as  the  countries  and  climates  in  which  they 
are  observed.  In  England,  the  festival  goes  by  the 
name  of  "  Harvest  Home,"  the  meaning  of  which 
is,  the  harvest  is  brought  home  or  housed.  The  cel 
ebration  is  confined  to  the  agricultural  class,  and  is 
unattended  with  any  religious  observances.  It  is  a 
feast  which  the  landlord  or  farmer  gives  to  the  work 
men  on  his  land.  It  consists  of  a  supper  of  the 
true  English  materials  —  roast  beef,  plum  pudding, 
and  plenty  of  good  home-brewed  ale.  Such  pro 
vision  is  truly  characteristic  of  the  nation.  Among 
the  very  few  instances  which  occur  of  equality  in 


THANKSGIVING    DINNER   FESTIVALS.  195 

the  domestic  economy,  this  may  be  reckoned  as  one 
of  them.  In  the  celebration  of  "  Harvest  Home," 
all  meet  at  one  common  table,  and  the  stately  land 
lord  or  wealthy  farmer  is  pleased  to  lay  aside  for  a 
few  hours  the  aristocracy  of  rank,  and  mingles  with 
his  humble  laborers,  whose  diligence  and  nerve 
have  filled  his  plenteous  garners.  Rustic  songs,  and 
sometimes  a  rural  dance,  close  the  scene  of  their 
merriment. 

"  Harvest  Home  "  differs  in  the  time  of  its  celebra 
tion  according  to  the  forwardness  or  lateness  of  the 
season,  and  the  latitude  of  the  place.  There  is  not 
any  special  day  set  apart  for  its  observance.  In  the 
part  of  England  from  which  I  came,  Hampshire,  be 
ing  one  of  the  extreme  southern  counties,  it  generally 
took  place  some  time  in  September,  and  immediately 
followed  the  last  load  of  wheat.  I  believe  that  in 
Kent,  and  counties  where  the  hop  is  the  principal 
product  of  the  soil,  it  is  deferred  to  the  close  of  the 
gathering  of  the  fruit  of  that  plant.  It  will  be  seen 
from  these  remarks  that  the  festival  must  be  very 
partial,  differing  widely  in  the  time  of  its  observance. 
The  manner,  I  presume,  is  much  the  same  in  every 
county  in  England.  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ? 

There  is  no  possibility  of  improving,  at  least  in 
the  taste  of  an  Englishman,  on  the  solid  comforts 
arising  from  roast  beef,  plum  pudding,  and  beer.  In 
France,  in  the  provinces  where  the  grape  is  cultivat 
ed,  the  completion  of  the  ingathering  is  also  a  season 
of  festivity.  The  difference  of  the  celebration  is  in 
keeping  with  the  difference  of  character  between  the 


196  NEW   ENGLAND 

two  nations.  The  sprightly,  lively  Frenchman,  less 
physical,  but  far  more  spiritual  than  his  doughty  neigh 
bor,  John  Bull,  exhibits  his  mirth  in  gallantry.  He 
sings  catches,  dances,  and  makes  love  to  the  peasant 
girls,  who  have  partaken  in  the  labors  of  the  field  ; 
and  instead  of  blunting  his  appetite  for  merriment  by 
the  soporific  influence  of  the  "  home-brewed  ale,"  he 
increases  the  hilarity  of  his  spirits  by  the  exhilarat 
ing  juice  of  his  native  grape. 

We  leave  the  old  world  and  enter  upon  the  new. 
and  the  festival  assumes  quite  another  appearance. 
Here,  it  is  quite  a  serious  affair.  Tinctured  with  the 
spirit  of  the  Pilgrims,  religion  is  made  the  handmaid 
of  festivity.  The  State  government  appoints  the 
day,  and  invites  the  citizens  to  rejoice  with  sacred 
joy.  The  New  England  States,  whose  claims  to 
"  puritanism  "  are  undisputed,  look  upon  this  festival 
as  the  "  queen  of  feasts." 

At  this  time,  the  scattered  members  of  the  family, 
who  are  within  accessible  distances,  re-assemble  in 
the  homestead.  The  hand  of  labor  is  suspended  ;  all 
bend  their  way  to  the  temple  to  worship  with  grate 
ful  hearts,  and  then  return  to  their  cheerful  firesides 
to  enjoy  the  festivities  of  the  occasion.  Shortly  after 
coming  from  "  meeting,"  the  dinner  is  announced. 
Good  Heavens,  what  a  banquet  has  been  prepared  ! 
How  shall  I  describe  the  luxuriance  of  that  board  ! 
With  all  my  good  feeding  propensities,  I  approach 
the  subject  with  misgiving.  Oh,  that  I  could  only 
do  as  good  justice  in  describing  it  as  I  could  in 
partaking  of  it !  then  would  the  reader  feel  that  I 


THANKSGIVING    DINNER   FESTIVALS.  197 

had  done  my  duty  nobly,  and  I  should  be  no  less 
comfortable  on  that  score  myself. 

First,  then,  let  me  notice  the  turkey,  that  rep 
resentative  of  the  Grand  Seignior's  dominions.  I  am 
not  concerned  in  the  divisions  which  the  rulers  of 
the  earth  make  of  the  territories  under  their  control. 
If  the  "  Holy  Alliance  "  think  fit  to  combine,  and  in 
their  great  generosity  kindly  provide  for  the  interests 
of  a  feeble  State  by  sharing  it  among  themselves, 
that  is  their  affair.  I  am  no  politician,  and  shall 
not  interfere.  If  Congress  determines  to  receive 
Mexico  into  the  confederacy,  or  to  make  any  other 
disposal  of  circumadjacent  territories  that  may  be 
thought  expedient,  I  have  no  objection — let  it  be  so. 
But  when  Turkey  is  the  subject  of  discussion,  I  beg 
to  put  in  my  claim.  I  demand  a  slice  in  the  "  division 
of  the  spoils."  I  know  not  which  dish  next  takes 
precedence  in  point  of  favor.  I  see  my  old  friend, 
Sir  Loin,*  but  his  title  gives  him  no  advantage  in 
this  equalizing  republic.  Then  I  spy  a  goose  ;  that 
is  called  a  silly  bird.  I  do  not  care  for  that ;  it  is 
at  all  events  a  very  sensible  dish.  A  very  simple 
person  is  sometimes  called  a  goose ;  but  the  compari 
son  detracts  from  the  merit  of  the  feathered  biped. 
A  simpleton,  if  he  is  of  little  use  while  he  lives,  is  of 
less  when  he  is  dead.  A  goose  is  not  quite  so  sim 
ple  as  that.  Those  ducks  which  lie  side  by  side  so 
quietly  in  the  same  dish,  look  as  inseparable  as  a 

*  Webster,  in  his  dictionary,  has  these  definitions  to  the 
word  "  sir  "  :  "  The  title  of  a  knight  or  baronet.  It  is  prefixed 
to  loin  in  sirloin,  as,  a  sirloin  of  beef." 


198  NEW   ENGLAND 

newly  married  couple  ;  there  is,  l:o  vever,  this  differ 
ence  in  their  destinies  :  death,  which  generally  parts 
married  people,  seems  to  have  brought  them  together. 
I  will  show  them  particular  marks  of  my  attention — 
ducks  are  the  only  quacks  that  I  tolerate.  A  ctiicken- 
pie  of  ample  dimensions  next  strikes  the  eye.  What 
an  extensive  field  for  pleasing  contemptation  !  Quietly 
reposing  beneath  a  coverlid  of  crust,  one  is  irresisti 
bly  led  to  remove  the  drapery  and  reveal  the  hidden 
treasure.  If  in  the  jostling  of  life  I  must  come  in 
contact  with  crusty  characters,  may  they  be  of  this 
description  !  Time  would  fail  me  to  particularize  on 
all  the  dainties  of  that  board.  Everything,  from  a 
jelly  to  a  pickle,  is  to  be  found  there.  There  are 
sauces  of  every  shape  and  flavor.  Long  sauce  and 
short  sauce,  sweet  sauce  and  sour  sauce  ;  cranberry 
sauce  for  the  turkey,  and  apple  sauce  for  the  goose ; 
stuffings  and  seamings  so  abundant  that  there  is 
"  nothing  out  of  season."  Let  me  not  forget  that 
roast  pig  with  an  apple  in  his  mouth.  He  shows  the 
"  ruling  passion  strong  in  death."  We  have  all  heard 
the  trite  remark,  "  there  are  those  who  live  to  eat, 
and  there  are  those  who  eat  to  live";  but  who  can 
boast  such  great  things  as  our  friend  in  that  dish, 
"he  lived  to  eat,  and  died  to  be  eaten."  He  has 
gone  through  the  whole  conjugation,  both  active 
and  passive  voice — what  a  learned  pig ! 

I  utterly  despair  of  introducing  the  whole  family 
of  pies  that  are  present  on  this  occasion  ;  it  will  be 
sufficient  to  speak  of  the  first  in  dignity — the  pump 
kin  pie.  What  a  host  of  delightful  associations 


THANKSGIVING    DINNER   FESTIVALS.  199 

crowd  upon  the  mind  in  that  single  word ;  you  think 
of  sugar  and  milk,  and  ginger  and  fruit,  and  custard, 
but  you  can  only  think  of  one  at  a  time,  but  when 
you  eat  pumpkin  pie,  you  taste  the  whole  at  once. 
It  is  an  assemblage  of  most  excellent  things  concen 
trated  in  one  delicious  morsel.  And  now,  perhaps, 
the  reader  thinks  that  I  have  exhausted  the  subject. 
By  no  means.  The  family  of  cakes  is  as  numerous  as 
that  of  the  pies,  and  scattered  among  the  larger  dishes, 
look  like  those  points  in  writing  which  are  known  by 
the  name  of  notes  of  admiration.  They  direct  the 
eye  to  something  of  special  interest.  There  is  the 
doughnut  with  its  coat  of  brown,  considerably  puffed 
up  in  its  own  conceit ;  there  is  molasses  cake,  and 
sugar  cake,  and  crullers,  and  gingerbread,  handed 
around  in  rapid  succession,  till  the  most  redoubtable 
knight  of  the  table  has  to  cry  out :  "  Spare  me,  spare 
me  !  enough,  enough  !  " 

Tea  and  coffee,  sparkling  cider,  and  apples  and 
nuts  conclude  the  feast,  leaving  no  room  for  desire. 
The  old  folks  talk  of  the  good  old  times  that  are 
past;  the  young  ones  enjoy  the. good  times  that  are 
present;  the  little  children,  well  replenished,  sink, 
one  by  one,  to  sleep,  and  are  carried  by  their  tender 
mothers  to.  bed  ;  the  youths  frolic  or  play  forfeits  ; 
but  the  candles  begin  to  burn  low,  the  flame  flickers 
in  the  fire  place,  the  laugh  is  less  loud  and  less 
piquant,  and  by  the  time  the  clock  strikes  ten,  the 
mirthful  company  have  all  retired  to  their  repose. 

Happy  New  Englanders !  May  you  enjoy  many 
such  meetings,  and  I  do  not  care  if  I  make  one  of 
the  party.  C.  F.  L.  F. 


wliile  Spending    tl^e 


Oh,  give  me  back  my  native  hills, 
The  rock-girt  woods  that  wave  in  heaven, 
The  music  of  a  myriad  rills 
That  purl  beneath  the  light  of  even. 
Oh,  give  me  back  the  winter  wind 
That  o'er  the  northern  mountain  howls  ; 
The  burning  clime  I  leave  behind, 
The  sensual  feast,  the  mantling  bowls. 
Let  all  who,  born  for  better  things, 
Would  chain  the  heart  to  Mammon's  car, 
Fly  on  the  north  wind's  fleetest  wings, 
And  hail  the  tropics'  loveliest  star. 
To  me,  more  lovely  is  the  home 
Where  kindred  hearts  at  evening  meet, 
While  shrieking  blasts  like  demons  roam, 
And  minds,  long  tried,  each  other  greet. 

II. 

I  would  not  mount  the  vassal's  throne 
To  find  a  felon's  damne'd  grave. 


LINES.  201 

I  would  not  do,  to  be  undone, 
f  Nor,  born  mind's  monarch,  be  a  slave  ! 
Corruption  lurks  in  all  the  bowers 
Of  that  soft,  sunny,  sensual  clime, 
Where  sin's  dark  pinions  gloom  the  hours, 
And,  giant-like,  stalks  forth  dark  crime. 
Let  not  the  spirit  God  decreed 
Should  range  at  will  through  earth  and  heaven, 
Descend  to  be  in  thought  or  deed 
The  creature  of  Time's  festering  leaven. 
Let  not  the  light  that  God  breathed  in, 
From  his  own  soul,  the  unborn  child, 
Be  dimmed  by  doubt,  or  gloomed  by  sin, 
Or  perish  on  earth's  dreariest  wild. 
Oft  we  become  the  things  we  hate, 
Led  on  by  those  who  ne'er  relent ; 
And  thus  we  raise  a  tomb  to  fate, 
And  build  o'er  hope  a  monument. 
Evil  becomes  the  guest  of  all 
Whom  conscience  guards  not  from  the  ills 
That  cluster  round  us  from  the  Fall. 
Like  cataracts  formed  by  mountain  rills, 
Plague  breathes  through  all  the  gleaming  air 
That  floats  o'er  heaven,  as  if  it  thought 
In  gilded  cups  lurks  man's  despair, 
And  all  that  woe  hath  ever  wrought. 
If  in  this  world  we  would  be  wise, 
Shun  we  the  guilt  that  is  unblest, 
For  in  the  far,  far,  unknown  skies 
There  is  for  sin  no  realm  of  rest. 
Then  give  me  back  my  native  hills, 


202  LINES. 

Though  rude  the  men  and  rough  the  soil, 
And  scant  the  harvest  that  ne'er  fills 
The  granary — won  by  hardest  toil. 
If  no  high,  proud,  and  generous  spirit 
Flashes  like  light  from  northern  hearts, 
They  from  their  sires  a  God  inherit, 
And  God's  own  voice,  that  ne'er  departs. 

S.  L.  FAIRFIELD. 


Vi^it 


A  SKETCH  :  BY  MRS.  R..  FRAZIER. 

HAVE  pleasant  news  for  you,  my  dear,'vsaid 
Mr  Delisle  to  his  wife,  as  he  came  in  to  din 
ner  ;  "  your  old  friend,  Mrs.  Winfield,  is  in  town." 

"  What,  Emily  Lardeau  that  was  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Delisle.  "  We  were  certainly  intimate  enough 
when  girls,  our  families  living,  for  several  years,  next 
door  ;  but  since  Emily  married,  and  removed  to  a 
remote  part  of  Virginia,  we  have  lost  sight  of  each 
other.  We  corresponded  for  a  while  at  first,  but 
our  letters  gradually  became  less  frequent,  and  at 
last  ceased  entirely  ;  for,  you  know,  I  was  married 
soon  after  Emily,  and  then  I  lost  all  inclination  for 
letter-writing,  as  is  generally  the  case,  I  believe, 
with  women  that  are  settled  in  life,  and  have  no 
longer  anything  to  write  about." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Delisle,  "  you  will,  no  doubt, 
be  glad  to  renew  your  friendship  with  the  ci-devant 
Emily  Lardeau,  whom  I  recollect  as  an  uncommonly 
fine  girl.  You  know,  we  heard  of  the  death  of  Mr. 
Winfield,  eight  or  nine  years  ago.  She  has  been 
spending  most  of  the  winter  at  Washington,  having 
had  business  with  Congress,  on  account  of  a  claim  of 


204  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

her  late  husband  against  the  United  States.  She 
is  here  with  some  friends  from  the  South,  and  they 
leave  town  for  Boston  in  a  few  days." 

"  But  who  told  you  all  this  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Delisle. 

"  Herself,"  was  his  reply.  "  I  stopped  in  at  the 
United  States  Hotel,  to  inquire  if  Mr.  Marvin  had 
yet  arrived,  and  I  saw  her  name  on  the  book.  So, 
believing  it  to  be  that  of  our  old  friend,  I  made  her 
a  visit,  and  introduced  myself.  Mrs.  Winfield  and 
her  party  have  a  private  parlor  at  the  hotel.  I  was 
glad  to  find  that  she  recognized  me,  even  before  I 
mentioned  my  name,  notwithstanding  the  lapse  of 
more  than  sixteen  years.  You  know  her  marriage 
took  place  about  three  months  before  ours." 

"  How  long  will  Mrs.  Winfield  remain  in  town  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Delisle. 

"  Only  two  or  three  days ;  of  course,  you  will  call 
and  see  her  this  afternoon,  and  show  her  all  possible 
kindness  during  her  stay  in  Philadelphia." 

"I  am  just  thinking  how  that  is  to  be  managed. 
What  a  pity  she  did  not  arrive  in  town  a  month  ago, 
and  then  I  could  have  had  her  at  my  party." 
•    "  That  would  have  been  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Delisle. 

"  Nothing — my  dear,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  What 
better  could  I  have  done  for  Emily  Winfield,  than  to 
invite  her  with  all  my  friends  ?  " 

"  Friends  !  "  exclaimed  her  husband,  "  why  will 
you  persist  in  calling  a  crowd  of  several  hundred 
people  your  friends  ?  " 

"  So  they  were,"  said  Mrs.  Delisle ;  "  you  know 
very  well  it  was  not  a  general  party." 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  205 

"  Is  it  possible  you  were  acquainted  with  even  the 
names  of  all  the  people  I  saw  here  that  night  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Delisle.  "  I  know  not  what  you  call  a 
general  party,  if  that  was  not  one." 

"  Well,  it  was  not"  resumed  the  wife.  "  A  gen 
eral  party  is  when  we  ask  everybody  with  whom  we 
are  on  visiting  terms,  and  invite  by  families,  even 
when  some  of  the  members  are  not  exactly  such  as 
we  like  to  show  to  the  elite  of  our  circle.  For  in 
stance,  I  did  not  ask  Mrs.  Littleton's  sisters,  though 
they  live  in  the  house  with  her ;  nor  Mrs.  Ludlow's 
either ;  nor  Mrs.  Ramsby's  cousin  Mary  ;  nor  Mrs. 
Bloomfield's  two  step-daughters,  though  I  had  all 
three  of  her  own ;  nor  the  Miss  Jenks'  aunt ;  nor 
Mrs.  Milden's  sister-in-law;  nor  Mrs.  Masters' 
either;  also,  I  invited  nobody  that  lives  north  of 
Chestnut  Street.  Now,  if  I  had  not  taken  care  be 
forehand  to  have  it  understood  that  I  was  not  go 
ing  to  give  a  general  party,  I  should  have  been 
obliged  to  invite  all  these  people." 

"  In  other  words,"  observed  Mr.  Delisle,  "  a  gen 
eral  party  is  one  in  which  the  feelings  of  all  your 
acquaintances  are  respected  ;  whereas,  they  may  he 
oflended  with  impunity  if  your  crowd  is  designated 
as  select." 

"  Well,"  resumed  Mrs.  Delisle,  "I  am  sure  there 
was  crowd  enough,  notwithstanding  that  I  left  out 
everybody  whom  there  was  no  advantage  in  having. 
Not  half  the  ladies  even  saw  the  supper  table — at 
least,  no  more  of  it  than  the  tops  of  the  sugar  tem 
ples  and  pyramids ;  and  when  the  dancing  com- 


206  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

raenced,  there  was  only  room  for  half  cotillions,  of 
four  people  each.  And  the  sleeves  were  all  torn,  as 
everybody  was  jammed  into  one  mass,  and  the 
flounces  of  some  were  torn  to  tatters.  The  heat 
was  so  great  that  all  the  real  curls  came  out,  and 
hung  in  strings;  and  numbers  of  ladies  caught  violent 
colds  from  passing  nearly  the  whole  time  on  the  stairs 
and  in  the  entry,  for  the  sake  of  coolness." 

"  And  you  regret  that  your  friend,  Mrs.  Win- 
field,  was  not  here  to  enjoy  all  this  ? "  said  Mr. 
Delisle. 

"Enjoy?"  returned  his  wife,  "was  it  not  a 
splendid  party  ?  Think  of  the  sum  it  cost." 

"  You  need  not  telT  me  that,"  said  the  husband  ; 
;'  rather  too  large  a  sum  to  be  expended  by  persons 
in  middle  life,  for  one  evening  of  pain — pleasure  I 
am  sure  it  was  not,  to  any  human  being." 

"  Middle  life,"  repeated  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  you  are 
always  talking  of  our  being  in  middle  life,  even  be 
fore  strangers." 

"  So  we  are.  And  even  if  we  were  to  spend  five 
times  the  sum  on  one  evening  of  foolery  and  suffer 
ing,  I  doubt  if  we  should  still  be  admitted  into  what 
is  termed  high  life." 

"  You  know  well  enough,"  replied  Mrs.  Delisle, 
"  that  I  have  friends  at  whose  houses  I  have  met 
with  people  of  the  very  first  rank  and  fashion — 
people  who  treated  me  so  politely  when  I  was  in 
troduced,  that  I  did  not  hesitate  to  call  on  them, 
previous  to  my  party,  as  a  preparatory  step  to  send 
ing  them  invitations." 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  207 

"  But  did  they  come,  when  thus  you  called  on 
them  ?  "  asked  her  husband  smiling. 

"  Nonsense,  Mr.  Delisle,"  replied  the  lady,  "  they 
all  sent  very  reasonable  excuses  and  sincere  regrets." 

"  Well,"  resumed  Mr.  Delisle,  "  we  have  dis 
cussed  the  subject  often  enough.  But  what  is  it  all 
to  the  Widow  Winfield  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  do  n't  know  exactly  what  to  do  with  her. 
I  cannot  give  another  party  this  season." 

"  Heaven  forbid  you  should ! "  ejaculated  her 
husband. 

"  "Well,  inviting  a  small  select  company  to  meet 
Mrs.  Winfield,  as  some  people  would,  that 's  quite 
out  of  my  way.  I  give  one  great  party  every  season, 
and  then  I  have  done  my  duty,  and  my  conscience 
is  clear  till  next  season,  having  paid  off  my  debts  to 
all  that  have  invited  me  to  their  parties,  and  laid  a 
foundation  for  future  invitations  next  winter." 

"  Notwithstanding  all  this,"  said  Mr.  Delisle,  "  my 
advice  is  that  you  invite  Mrs.  Winfield  for  to-morrow 
evening,  and  ask  fifteen  or  twenty  agreeable  people 
to  meet  her." 

"  Well,  then,"  replied  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  we  must 
light  up  the  parlors,  and  have  ice-creams  and  other 
such  things,  and  hire  Carrol  to  help  Peter  hand 
them  round.  All  this  will  cost  as  much  as  one  of 
Vanharlingen's  new  style  pelerines,  and  I  am  dying 
for  one  of  them.  There  is  one  that  is  worked  all 
round  in  a  running  pattern — " 

"  Never  mind  the  running  pattern,"  interrupted 
her  husband,  "  but  endeavor  to  devise  some  way  of 


208  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

evincing  your  pleasure  at  meeting  again  with  one  of 
the  most  intimate  friends  of  your  early  youth.  I  re 
member  her  as  a  very  handsome  and  agreeable  girl, 
and  she  is  now  a  most  agreeable  woman,  and  hand 
some  still." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  her  circumstances 
are?" 

"  Not  the  least." 

"  How  was  she  dressed  ?  " 

"I  did  not  observe." 

"  That  is  so  like  you.  I  am  sure  if  I  were  to  buy 
all  my  things  at  the  cheap  stores,  where  they  keep 
nothing  but  trash,  and  have  them  made  up  by  cheap 
mantua-makers  and  milliners,  you  would  be  none  the 
wiser ;  I  do  not  believe  you  would  know  the  differ 
ence  between  a  bonnet  from  Paris  and  one  made  in 
the  Northern  Liberties." 

"  I  am  certain  I  should  not,"  replied  her  husband, 
"but  now  let  us  postpone  this  discussion  and  go  to 
dinner." 

In  the  afternoon,  as  they  proceeded  together  towards 
the  United  States  Hotel,  the  subject  was  renewed  by 
Mrs.  Delisle  saying,  "  As  to  troubling  myself  with 
any  extra  evening  company  after  having  given  my 
party,  that  is  entirely  out  of  the  question." 

"  Then  invite  Mrs.  Winfield  to  dinner,"  said  Mr. 
Delisle,  "  and  ask  the  Roxleys,  and  Hermans,  and 
Lysters  to  meet  her  ;  they  are  among  the  pleasantest 
people  we  know." 

"  I  cannot  undertake  all  that,"  replied  the  lady. 
"  The  trouble  and  expense  of  the  dinner  would  far 
exceed  that  of  a  small  tea  company." 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  209 

"  In  this  instance,  I  am  willing  to  pay  the  cost," 
said  Mr.  Dolisle,  "  for  I  expect  some  gratification 
in  return  for  it." 

"  You  talk  of  your  own  gratification,"  said  Mrs. 
Delisle,  "  and  yet  you  refuse  to  make  poor  Mary 
Jane  happy  by  giving  her  the  superb  silver  card- 
case  she  saw  at  Baily  &  Kitchen's  the  day  she 
got  her  last  ear-rings,  that  she  has  been  longing  for 
ever  since.  But,  to  make  an  end  of  all  this  argu 
ing,  the  cheapest  way  of  entertaining  Emily  Win- 
field  is—" 

"  Cheapest!"  said  Mr.  Delisle  indignantly. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  pursued  his  wife.  "  Is  it  not 
our  duty  to  consult  cheapness  in  all  unnecessary  ex 
penses  ?  You  know  that  we  have  a  large  family,  and 
now  that  Mary  Jane  has  come  out,  our  bills  for 
articles  of  dress  and  jewelry  are,  of  course,  very 
much  enhanced." 

"  I  know  that,  perfectly,"  replied  Mr.  Delisle. 
;'  She  ought  not  to  have  come  out  for  at  least  two 
years — seventeen  would  have  been  quite  time 
enough." 

"  There  was  no  possibility  of  keeping  her  in," 
remarked  Mrs.  Delisle.  "  But,  as  I  was  saying,  the 
cheapest  way  is  to  invite  Emily  Winfield  to  stay  at 
our  house  while  she  is  in  town ;  and  she  will  no 
doubt  consider  it  a  greater  compliment  than  if  we 
made  a  dinner  or  tea  party  for  her.  It  will  look  as 
if  we  desired  only  the  pleasure  of  her  society,  and 
were  unwilling  to  lose  any  part  of  it  by  sharing  it 
with  others." 

14 


210  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

"  I  am  not  certain,  though,"  said  Mr.  Delisle, 
"  that  she  will  find  our  society  (if  we  give  her  nothing 
else)  a  sufficient  compensation  for  what  she  will 
lose  by  resigning  that  of  the  friends  with  whom  she 
staying  at  the  hotel." 

"  How  you  talk !  "  replied  Mrs.  Delisle.  "  Have 
you  no  idea  of  the  delight  of  calling  up  recollections 
of  our  days  of  girlhood,  and  of  discussing  once  more 
our  former  lovers  ?  " 

"  It  will  not  take  you  long  to  get  through  your 
old  sweethearts,"  observed  Mr.  Delisle.  "  Myself 
and  the  two  midshipmen  make  three." 

Before  the  lady  could  reply  they  had  reached  the 
door  of  the  United  States  Hotel,  and  were  immedi 
ately  conducted  to  the  parlor  occupied  by  Mrs.  Win- 
field  and  her  party.  They  found  her  alone  and  ex 
pecting  them,  as  Mr.  Delisle  had  told  her  he  would 
bring  his  wife  to  see  her  that  afternoon.  She  re 
ceived  Mrs.  Delisle  with  open  arms,  and  both  ladies 
seemed  very  glad  to  meet  again  after  so  long  a  sep 
aration,  for  they  had  been  extremely  intimate  at  so 
early  an  age  that  the  characters  of  both  were  still 
unformed. 

Mrs.  Delisle  examined  the  dress  of  her  friend  with 
a  scrutinizing  eye,  and  wondered  how  a  woman  could 
look  so  well  in  a  plain  black  silk ;  and  wondered, 
also,  why  any  one  with  such  a  profusion  of  fine  hair 
should  wear  a  cap ;  and  why  it  should  be  a  little, 
close  cap,  simply  trimmed  with  white  ribbon.  Yet 
she  now  felt  rather  glad  that  Mrs.  Winfield  had  not 
come  to  town  a  month  sooner.  "  After  all,"  thought 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  211 

she,  "  poor  Emily  would  not  have  been  much  of  an 
ornament  to  my  party ;  for  I  can  easily  see  that  her 
style  is  always  very  plain.  To  be  sure,  as  it  was  not 
a  general  party,  I  need  not  have  asked  her.  Yes, 
yes — I  see  clearly  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  invite 
any  of  my  friends  to  meet  her,  either  at  dinner  or 
at  tea." 

However,  Mrs.  Delisle  earnestly  pressed  Mrs. 
Winfield  to  remove  to  her  house,  and  pass  with  her 
the  two  days  she  was  yet  to  remain  in  town.  Mrs. 
Winfield,  who,  though  she  was  very  pleasantly  situ 
ated  at  the  hotel,  imagined  that  she  might  spend  two 
days  still  more  agreeably  with  one  of  the  most  intim 
ate  friends  of  her  youth,  was  soon  prevailed  on  to 
accept  the  invitation.  She  was  engaged  to  go 
with  her  party  to  Fairmount  that  afternoon,  and  to 
the  theater  in  the  evening ;  and  it  was  arranged  that 
she  should  remove  to  Spruce  Street  at  an  early  hour 
next  morning.  All  being  satisfactorily  arranged, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delisle  took  their  leave. 

By  the  evening  post,  Mr.  Delisle  received  a  letter 
requiring  his  immediate  presence  m  New  York  on 
some  business  of  importance,  which  would  most  prob 
ably  detain  him  several  days.  He  was  therefore 
obliged  to  set  out  next  morning  on  the  early  boat, 
lamenting  that  he  was  thus  prevented  from  partici 
pating  in  the  pleasure  of  Mrs.  Winfield's  visit ;  and 
desiring  his  wife  to  do  all  in  her  power  to  make  it 
agreeable  to  that  lady,  so  that  she  would  have  no 
occasion  to  regret  leaving  the  hotel  and  her  own 
party. 


212  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

"  I  shall  treat  her  just  as  I  would  a  sister,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Delisle.  "  But  make  haste,  my  dear,  or 
you  will  be  too  late  for  the  boat." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Mary  Jane  Delisle,  "  are  n't  you 
going  to  dress  yourself,  and.  sit  in  the  front  parlor  all 
day  with  Mrs.  Winfield  ?  " 

"  Not  I,  indeed,"  replied  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  you  know 
as  I  am  never  at  home  to  morning  visitors,  it  is  not 
my  way  to  sit  dressed  up  in  the  parlor  ;  and  therefore, 
as  of  course  I  would  not  put  myself  out  of  my  way  for 
so  old  a  friend  as  Emily  Winfield,  she  must  take  me 
as  she  finds  me  ;  that  is,  in  the  nursery,  where  I  can 
be  at  my  ease  in  a  wrapper.  As  for  having  such 
parlors  as  ours  littered  with  sewing,  that  is  quite  out 
of  the  question  ;  and  besides,  they  are  so  much  dark 
ened  by  the  window  curtains,  that  there  is  no  seeing 
to  thread  a  needle,  or  to  read  a  word,  even  in  the 
annuals  that  lie  on  the  center  table." 

"  But  she  might  look  out  of  the  window,"  observed 
Mary  Jane. 

"  She  could  not  see  through  the  muslin  blinds," 
replied  Mrs.  Deslile,  "  they  are  worked  so  closely  all 
over ;  and  I  won't  have  them  rumpled  by  drawing 
aside." 

"  It  is  well  pa 's  not  at  home,"  remarked  the 
daughter. 

"  I  am  very  glad  he  is  not,"  resumed  Mrs.  Delisle. 
"  He  and  I  have  such  different  views  with  regard  to 
entertaining  company,  and  he  is  always  so  hard  to 
contradict.  However,  Mary  Jane,  you  must  con 
tinually  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  the  duty  of  all  children 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  213 

to  consider  their  father  superior  to  every  man  in  the 
world." 

"  Yes  mamma,"  replied  Mary  Jane,  "  but  you 
know  very  well  that  pa  has  a  great  many  queer  no 
tions." 

"  Undoubtedly  he  has,"  answered  the  mother, 
"  and  he  is  in  every  respect  the  reverse  of  myself ; 
but  remember,  always,  that  it  is  your  duty  as  a  child 
to  be  blind  to  his  faults,  however  great  they  may 
be." 

About  eleven  o'clock,  Mrs.  Winfield  came  to  the 
door  in  a  carriage,  with  a  small  trunk  containing  a 
change  of  clothes. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  who  would  have 
thought  of  her  being  here  before  twelve,  at  the 
earliest.  When  I  urged  her  to  come  directly  after 
breakfast,  I  had  no  idea  that  she  would  take  me  at 
my  word  ;  nobody  ever  does.  Run  down,  Mary 
Jane,  and  show  Mrs.  Winfield  into  the  back  spare 
bedroom,  till  she  gets  her  bonnet  off,  and  then  bring 
her  into  the  nursery.  I  shall  not  put  myself  the 
least  out  of  my  way.  If  visitors  will  come,  they  must 
take  me  as  they  find  me." 

Accordingly,  Mrs.  Winfield  was  ushered  into  the 
nursery,  a  long,  narrow  room  in  that  part  of  the 
house  denominated  the  back  building ;  with  a  low 
ceiling,  low  windows,  and  a  door  opening  into  a  sort 
of  balcony  or  veranda.  This  apartment  always  pre 
sented  a  most  disorderly  appearance  ;  and  the  furni 
ture  (which  was  very  plain)  had  been  much  abused 
by  the  children.  But  though  it  was  the  constant 


214  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

abiding  place  of  the  successive  Irish  nurses,  it  was  in 
the  nursery  that  Mrs.  Delisle  spent  most  of  her  time. 
There  she  sat  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  extreme  de 
shabille,  except  when,  in  an  exuberance  of  finery,  she 
went  out  for  the  purpose  of  shopping,  or  of  making 
visits  by  leaving  her  card.  Her  professed  devotion 
to  her  children  never  prevented  her  daring  the  sea 
son  from  spending  the  first  part  of  every  evening  at 
her  toilet,  and  the  last  at  a  large  party. 

"  My  dear  Emily,"  said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  I  am  de 
lighted  to  see  you.  But  how  late  you  are.  Mary 
Jane  and  I  have  been  anxiously  expecting  you  ever 
since  breakfast ;  do  take  a  seat  on  the  couch.  Nel 
ly,  shake  up  the  pillows — the  boys  have  been  on  them 
with  their  feet.  You  find  me  just  going  to  dress 
the  baby,  a  thing  I  always  do  myself,  before  Nelly 
carries  her  out  walking.  You  were  right  to  bring 
your  sewing ;  you  must  make  yourself  quite  at  home, 
and  neither  use  ceremony  nor  expect  any.  Mary 
Jane,  are  you  going  out  this  morning  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  am,"  replied  the  daughter,  "  I 
shall  begin  dressing  immediately." 

"  Well,  then,  I  must  get  you  to  leave  cards  for  me 
and  yourself  at  Miss  Warden's,  at  Mrs.  Morley's, 
at  Mrs.  Clarkson's,  and  at  Mrs.  Simmons',  and  to 
to  stop  at  Madame  Dawson's  and  hurry  her  with  my 
bonnet." 

"  Dawson  won't  be  hurried,"  said  Mary  Jane. 
"Besides,  I  have  visits  of  my  own  on  hand,  and  have 
no  time  to  stop  at  all  those  places." 

"  Mildness  of  voice    and   deportment,  my   dear 


MRS.  AVINFIELD'S  VISIT.  215 

Mary  Jane,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Delisle,  sententiously, 
"  and  strict  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  a  parent, 
are  particularly  becoming  to  all  young  ladies  who 
desire  " — 

But  before  her  mother  had  time  to  finish  the  sen 
tence,  Mary  Jane  flounced  out  of  the  room,  shutting 
the  door  violently. 

"  A  perfect  child  of  nature,"  observed  Mrs.  De- 
lisle.  "  She  is,  as  yet,  incapable  of  control,  and  is 
considered  brusque.  But  brusquerie  sometimes  suc 
ceeds  quite  as  well  as  manner.  Mary  Jane  takes 
extremely.  The  other  night,  at  Mrs.  Winslow's,  she 
was  constantly  surrounded  with  gentlemen.  She  is 
but  fifteen,  and  her  father  thinks  I  brought  her  out 
too  soon,  but  there  was  no  such  thing  as  keeping 
her  back." 

"  So  I  should  suppose,"  thought  Mrs.  Winfield. 

"  Come  now,  Nelly,  give  me  the  baby,"  proceeded 
Mrs.  Delisle.  "  I  have  all  her  things  ready.  You 
see,  my  dear  Emily,  (for  I  make  no  stranger  of  you) 
Nelly  washes  and  dresses  the  baby  every  morning ; 
but  when  she  is  to  be  carried  out,  I  always  prepare 
her  myself;  and  while  I  arn  doing  so,  we  can  talk 
of  old  times  quite  at  our  ease.  Do  you  remember 
Maria  Welford's  Christmas  ball?  Nelly,  give  me 
the  pin-cushion.  Hush,  baby,  hush  !  " 

"  I  remember  it  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Winfield.  "It 
was  eighteen  years  ago." 

"  I  wore  a  crepe  lisse,  looped  up  with  daffodils, 
over  a  primrose-colored  satin,"  pursued  Mrs.  De- 
lisle.  "  There  now,  baby,  hold  still  till  I  pin  its  pet- 


216  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

ticoat.  Hush,  darling,  hush  (she  always  cries  when 
I  dress  her).  Yes,  as  I  was  saying,  I  wore  that 
night  a  pale  yellow  crepe  Usse ;  the  sleeves  were 
en  bouffant,  divided  with  rouleaux  of  primrose-colored 
ribbon,  finished  with  rosettes ;  and  Frank  Edwards 
said  to  me,  very  gallantly — (baby,  you  must  not  cry 
so;  be  quiet  now  till  I  put  your  frock  on).  What 
was  your  dress,  Emily  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  have  no  recollection,"  replied  Mrs. 
Winfield,'  "  but  I  remember  that  the  ball  was  a 
very  pleasant  one,  and  that  a  very  amusing  incident 
occurred:" 

"  I  found  nothing  there  that  amused  me  so 
much,"  said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  as  seeing  Mrs.  Venham 
in  the  same  eternal  black  velvet  that  she  had  worn 
everywhere  for  three  winters.  But  as  I  was  telling 
you,  Frank  Edwards  said  to  me — baby,  hush,  or 
mother  will  whip  her.  See,  now,  stop  crying,  and 
look  at  its  pretty  pink  cloak." 

The  baby  did  stop,  and  did  look  at  its  cloak, 
which  was  of  embroidered  merino,  lined  with  white 
silk. 

"And  Emily,"  pursued  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  do  n't  you 
remember  the  day  when  a  large  party  of  us  went 
down  to  the  Navy  Yard  to  see  a  ship  or  something, 
and  there  came  on  a  sudden  rain,  all  in  a  moment, 
and  before  we  could  get  to  the  carriages  my  chip 
hat  was  completely  ruined  ?  It  was  perfectly  new, 
and  you  know  it  was  trimmed  with  pearl-white  ribbon, 
and  a  wreath  of  Cape  jasmin.  There  now,  baby  's 
quite  ready.  Come,  darling,  shake  a  day-day  before 
it  goes." 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  217 

After  the  baby  had  "  shaken  a  day-day  "  and  de 
parted,  Mrs.  Delisle  went  to  the  glass,  to  arrange 
her  disordered  wrapper,  to  smooth  her  still  more  dis 
ordered  hair,  and  she  had  thought  of  putting  on  a 
clean  cap,  but  concluded  that  as  her  husband  was 
not  at  home  to  insist  on  it,  and  as  she  should  not  see 
anybody  that  day,  it  was  not  worth  while.  She 
talked  all  the  time  to  Mrs.  Winfiatd  ;  sometimes  of 
her  children,  and  sometimes  of  what  she  called  old 
times,  but  in  reality  these  reminiscences  adverted 
only  to  the  dresses  she  had  worn  on  certain  occa 
sions  in  her  girlhood,  and  to  the  compliments  paid 
*  her  by  the  persons  she  denominated  her  beaux.  And 
such  was  her  volubility,  that  Mrs.  Winfield,  though 
a  woman  of  excellent  conversational  powers,  had 
seldom  an  opportunity  of  speaking  at  all. 

Mrs.  Delisle  (who,  notwithstanding  her  passion  for 
dress  and  parties,  professed  to  be  au  fait  in  all  the 
petty  details  of  housewifery,  and  was  one  of  those 
very  common  characters  who  exercise  the  closest 
economy  in  some  things  and  the  most  lavish  extrav 
agance  in  others)  sat  down  to  piecing  together  some 
very  old  calico  for  a  servant's  bed-quilt,  saying  to 
Mrs.  Winfield,  "  This  is  not  very  pretty  work  to 
bring  out  before  a  visitor,  but  you  know  I  do  not  con 
sider  you  a  stranger." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  street  door  was  thrown  vio 
lently  open,  and  a  rabble  rout  was  heard  ascending 
the  stairs.  Presently  in  rushed  five  boys,  just  from 
school,  and  shouting  for  bread  and  molasses.  But 
they  all  stopped  short  and  stared  at  the  sight  of 
Mrs.  Winfield. 


218  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

"  Nevermind,  my  dears,"  said  their  mother  ;  "  it 
is  only  Mrs.  Winfield,  an  old  friend  of  mine.  My 
dear  Emily,  I  am  sorry  you  have  no  children,  you 
know  not  the  pleasure  of  them." 

The  boys  having  recovered  from  their  surprise, 
now  clamored  with  one  accord  for  the  bread  and  mo 
lasses,  and  Mrs.  Winfield  thought  that,  like  Mary 
Jane,  they  certainly  wanted  manner.  Mrs.  Delisle 
mildly  requested  them  to  go  and  apply  to  Phillis  for 
it. 

"  You  know  very  well,"  said  one  of  the  boys, 
"  that  Phillis  always  drives  us  out  of  the  kitchen,  and 
says  she  won't  be  plagued  while  she  's  getting  "dinner. 
We  are  afraid  of  Phillis." 

"  I  wish  you  were  half  as  much  afraid  of  me," 
murmured  their  mother.  However,  she  went  down 
to  supply  their  demands,  saying  as  she  left  the  room, 
"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  take  anything  by  way  of  lun 
cheon,  my  dear  Emily,  lest  it  should  spoil  your 
dinner." 

The  boys  all  ran  down  after  her,  and  in  a  short 
time  returned,  their  faces  and  hands  very  much 
smeared  with  molasses.  From  that  time  till  dinner, 
the  nursery  and  the  balcony  resounded  with  noise 
and  riot ;  the  mother  sometimes  raising  her  voice  in 
vain  attempts  to  check  them,  but  generally  content 
ing  herself  with  remarking  to  Mrs.  Winfield,  that 
"  boys  would  be  boys,"  an  indubitable  truism. 
"  Their  father,"  said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  inclines  to  be 
rather  strict  with  the  children,  which  is  the  reason 
I  am  rather  indulgent.  And,  therefore,  when  he  is 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  219 

away,  they  always  break  out.  But  I  like  to  see 
them  natural,  and  I  have  no  idea  of  cooling  their  af 
fection  by  abridging  their  little  pleasures.  And  I 
must  say  they  all  absolutely  dote  on  me.  Come 
here,  Willie." 

"What  for?"  said  the  urchin,  who  was  just  then 
busily  employed  in  unwinding  and  tangling  one  of 
Mrs.  Winfield's  cotton  spools. 

"  Come,  and  kiss  mamma." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  was  the  reply. 

Mrs.  Winfield  now  endeavored  to  give  a  turn  to 
the  conversation,  by  inquiring  after  one  of  their 
former  friends,  Helen  Farley. 

"  Oh,  she  married  William  Orford,"  replied  Mrs. 
Delisle.  "  Only  think,  her  wedding  dress  was  a 
plain  brown  gros  des  Indes  ;  some  said  it  was  a  gros 
des  Suisse.  Just  imagine,  a  bride  in  brown.  But 
Helen  was  always  eccentric.  My  dear  boys,  let  me 
request  that  you  will  all  go  down  and  play  in  the 
yard." 

Her  dear  boys  took  no  heed  of  the  request,  but 
persisted  in  acting  naturally  by  scampering  in  and 
out  of  the  balcony ;  sometimes  through  the  door,  but 
generally  through  the  windows ;  prancing  on  the 
couch,  and  throwing  «its  pillows  in  each  other's  faces ; 
oversetting  chairs  and  stools,  and  trampling  on  their 
mother's  sewing.  One  of  them,  being  pursued  by 
another  with  the  hearth-brush,  fell  over  Mrs.  Win- 
field,  and  seized  her  silk  dress  in  his  molasses-daubed 
hands  to  assist  himself  in  rising.  Another,  with 
similar  hands,  snatched  her  reticule,  to  pelt  his 


220  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

brother  with,  and  scattered  its  contents  all  over  the 
floor.  But  it  were  endless  to  relate  their  pranks, 
none  of  which  were  the  least  amusing,  though  all 
were  extremely  annoying.  They  played  at  nothing, 
and  there  was  no  meaning  in  their  fun.  It  was 
nothing  but  senseless  running,  shouting,  and  scram 
bling,  beside  which,  they  were  all  ugly,  and  had 
remarkably  foolish  faces.  Mrs.  Delisle  said  that  all 
her  children  took  after  herself ;  and  Mrs.  Winfield 
saw  no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  assertion. 

Dinner  was  at  last  announced.  Mary  Jane  made 
her  appearance,  and  the  ladies  descended  to  the 
dining-room,  where  they  found  the  boys,  who  had 
run  down  en  masse  before  them,  already  squabbling 
about  their  seats. 

Mrs.  Delisle  requested  Mary  Jane  to  place  her 
self  between  James  and  Joseph,  to  keep  them  apart ; 
but  that  young  lady  refusing,  her  mother  said  : 

"  My  dear  Emily,  will  you  oblige  me  by  taking  a 
seat  between  those  two  young  gentlemen,  who  are  apt 
to  be  a  little  unruly  when  they  sit  together  ?  "  Mrs. 
Winfield  complied ;  and  the  boys  were  all  the  time 
striking  at  each  other  behind  her  back. 

"  We  have  a  very  plain  dinner,  to-day,"  said  the 
hostess.  "  When  Mr.  Delisle  is  at  home,  he  and  I 
and  Mary  Jane  do  not  dine  till  three  ;  and  the 
children  have  an  early  dinner  by  themselves,  at  one 
o'clock,  on  account  of  their  going  to  school  again  at 
two.  But  as  he  is  absent,  and  I  do  not  consider  you 
as  a  stranger,  I  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  have 
two  dinners  prepared.  What  shall  I  help  you-to  ?  " 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  221 

The  two  youngest  boys  now  cried  out  to  be  helped 
first,  and  as  their  mother  knew  they  would  persist, 
she  complied  with  their  demand,  saying,  "  My  dear 
Emily,  I  am  sure  you  will  excuse  the  poor  little  fel 
lows  ;  children  are  always  hungry,  and  we  can  have 
no  comfort  with  our  dinner  unless  we  pacify  them 
first.  Anything,  you  know,  for  peace  and  quiet 
ness." 

The  children  soon  devoured  their  meat,  and  while 
the  ladies  were  still  eating  theirs,  the  pudiing  was 
called  for  and  cut,  and  the  juveniles  were  all  served 
with  it  by  way  of  keeping  them  pacified.  Little 
Willie,  thinking  that  his  brother,  George,  had  rather 
a  larger  piece  of  pudding  than  himself,  fell  into  a 
violent  tantrum,  screamed  and  kicked,  and  finally, 
by  Mary  Jane's  order,  was  carried  from  the  table  by 
the  serving-man.  And  the  mother  rose  up,  and 
begged  to  be  excused,  while  she  went  out  to  quiet 
the  poor  little  fellow,  which  she  did  by  carrying  with 
her  a  much  larger  piece  of  pudding.  Mrs.  Winfield 
silently  wished  that  the  children  were  less  natural, 
or,  rather,  that  their  nature  was  better,  or  that  she 
was  considered  more  of  a  stranger. 

"  It  is  always  so,  when  papa  is  away,"  said  Mary 
Jane ;  "  but  mamma  is  rightly  served  for  not  having 
two  dinners,  as  usual." 

When  the  uncomfortable  repast  was  finished,  and 
peace  restored,  by  the  boys  going  to  school,  Mrs. 
Delisle  retired  to  her  chamber,  having  informed  her 
guest  that  it  was  her  and  Mary  Jane's  custom 
always  to  take  an  afternoon  nap  in  their  respective 


222  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

rooms ;  "  and  I  suppose,"  said  she,  "  you  would 
like  to  do  the  same."  Mrs.  Winfield  was  not  in 
clined  to  sleep,  but  she  had  no  objection  to  the  quiet 
of  her  own  apartment,  and  she  expressed  a  desire  to 
take  a  book  with  her. 

"  Except  a  few  annuals,"  said  Mary  Jane,  "  we 
have  no  books  but  those  in  papa's  library,  neither 
mamma  nor  myself  having  any  time  to  read  ;  but  I 
will  take  you  there  to  choose  one.  I  believe  he  has 
the  Waverly  novels,  and  Cooper's,  and  others  that  I 
hear  people  talk  about." 

When  they  reached  the  library,  they  found  the 
door  barricaded  by  a  table,  on  which  a  woman  was 
standing  while  she  cleaned  the  paint ;  and  looking  in, 
they  saw  another  scrubbing  the  floor,  half  of  which 
was  floated  with  water.  The  books  were  all  in  dis 
order,  having  been  taken  down  to  be  dusted  ;  and  it 
was  found  that  Mrs.  Delisle  had  seized  the  oppor 
tunity  of  her  husband's  absence  to  have  the  library 
cleaned.  "  To  go  in  here  is  impossible,"  said  Mary 
Jane,  "  but  I  will  bring  you  one  of  the  annuals  from 
the  center  table  in  the  parlor." 

The  annual  was  brought,  and  Mrs  Winfield  re 
tired  with  it  to  her  apartment,  but  having  read  it  be 
fore,  she  did  not  find  it  very  amusing. 

In  the  evening  it  rained,  and  Mrs.  Delisle  said 
that  she  was  glad  of  it,  as  now  she  need  not  dress  ; 
and  as  her  husband  was  away,  there  could  be  no 
danger  of  any  of  his  visitors  dropping  in.  Also,  that 
it  was  not  worth  while  to  have  the  parlors  opened,  as 
they  had  been  shut  up  all  day.  So  they  spent  the 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  223 

evening  in  the  eating-room,  and  Mary  Jane  went  to 
bed  immediately  after  tea ;  longing,  as  she  said,  to 
get  her  corsets  off.  The  younger  boys  slept  about 
the  sofa  and  carpet,  and  screamed  when  any  one 
touched  or  spoke  to  them.  The  elder  ones  rack- 
etted  overhead  in  the  nursery.  The  baby  was 
brought  down,  and  kept  worrying  about  the  table,  in 
the  arms  of  Nelly,  till  nine  o'clock,  that  it  might 
sleep  the  better  during  the  night.  When  the  justly 
fretting  infant  could  be  kept  awake  no  longer,  either 
by  wafting  it  up  and  down,  showing  it  the  lamp, 
jingling  a  bunch  of  keys  in  its  ears,  or  shaking  a 
string  of  beads  before  its  closing  eyes,  it  was  un 
dressed  on  the  spot,  crying  all  the  time,  having  been 
thoroughly  wakened  in  the  process ;  and  it  was 
finally  carried  off  by  Nelly,  whose  dismal  chant,  as 
she  rocked  and  swung  it  to  sleep,  was  heard  from 
above  stairs  for  half  an  hour. 

Mrs.  Delisle  now  seemed  so  tired  and  sleepy,  that 
her  guest  (who  was  tired  also)  took  her  leave  for  the 
night,  and  repaired  to  her  chamber.  This  apart 
ment,  though  called  a  spare  bedroom,  was  used  by 
every  member  of  the  family  as  a  receptacle  for  all 
sorts  of  things,  and  Mrs.  Winfield  being  (unfortu 
nately  for  her)  considered  no  stranger,  nothing  had 
been  removed  with  a  view  to  her  accomodation. 
While  she  had  sat  there  reading  in  the  afternoon,  at 
night  when  she  was  preparing  for  bed,  and  in  the 
morning  before  she  was  up,  and  while  she  was  dress 
ing,  her  privacy  was  continually  invaded  by  the 
nurse,  the  other  servants,  and  even  Mrs.  Delisle  and 


224  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

Mary  Jane  coming  to  get  various  articles  from  the 
closets,  bureaus,  and  presses.  This  chamber  was, 
unhappily,  on  the  same  floor  with  the  dormitories  of 
the  boys,  who  begun  their  career  at  daylight,  chasing 
each  other  along  the  passages,  and  enacting  a  gen 
eral  wrestling  match  so  close  to  Mrs.  Winfield's 
door,  that  they  burst  it  open  in  the  melde,  and  fell 
into  the  room,  while  she  was  engaged  at  the  wash 
ing-stand. 

There  was  another  spare  bedroom,  superior  in 
every  respect  to  this  one,  but  Mrs.  Delisle  did  not 
think  it  worth  while  to  be  so  ceremonious  with  her 
old  friend,  Emily  Winfield,  as  to  place  her  in  the 
best  of  the  two  chambers. 

As  soon  as  the  mother  and  daughter  met  in  the 
morning — "  Mary  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  I  have 
been  thinking  of  something — Miss  Nancy  Kisings 
has  not  yet  made  her  weekly  visit,  and  as  we  may  be 
sure  of  the  infliction  between  this  and  Sunday,  sup 
pose  we  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone,  and  have  her 
to-day  with  Mrs.  Winfield." 

"  Never  were  two  people  more  unsuitable,"  re 
plied  Mary  Jane,  "  Miss  Nancy  is  the  stupidest  wo 
man  on  earth." 

"  No  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  am  I  responsi 
ble  for  her  stupidity  ?  It  will  be  a  good  opportunity 
of  getting  at  once  through  the  bore  of  her  visit ;  at 
least,  for  this  week.  Mrs.  Winfield  has  seen  too  much 
of  the  world  not  to  know  that  she  must  take  people 
as  she  finds  them ;  and  she  does  not  seem  the  least 
hard  to  please.  I  dare  say  she  will  get  along  well 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  225 

enough  with  Miss  Nancy,  who  must  be  tolerated,  as 
your  father,  in  his  foolish  kindness,  will  not  allow 
her  to  be  affronted  away.  So  we  will  send  for  her 
to  come  to-day,  and  no  doubt  the  poor  old  thing  will 
be  highly  pleased  with  the  compliment,  as  I  dare  say 
it  is  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  ever  was  sent  for  by 
anybody." 

Miss  Nancy  Risings  was  an  old  maiden  lady,  who 
lived  alone,  on  a  very  small  income  derived  from  a 
ground  rent ;  and  to  make  it  hold  out,  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  round  in  seven  or  eight  families  with 
whom  she  had  long  been  acquainted.  After  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Delisle's  mother,  whom  she  had  visited 
once  a  week  for  twenty-five  years,  Miss  Nancy  trans 
ferred  her  visits  to  the  daughter,  and  as  it  was  really 
an  object  of  some  importance  to  the  old  lady  to  spend 
every  day  from  home,  Mr.  Delisle  insisted  on  her  be 
ing  received  by  his  family,  and  she  was  not  in  the 
least  particular  as  to  the  mode  of  reception. 

Accordingly,  Miss  Nancy  Risings  was  sent  for, 
and  by  the  time  breakfast  was  over,  and  the  boys 
prevailed  on  to  go  to  school,  the  old  lady  arrived,  and 
she  and  their  other  guest  were  ushered  into  the  back 
parlor  ;  Mary  Jane  having  protested  to  her  mother 
that  it  would  be  too  bad  to  condemn  Mrs.  Winfield  to 
the  nursery,  particularly  as  she  had  Miss  Nancy  in 
addition. 

The  two  visitors  were  now  left  alone.  Miss  Nancy 
had  her  knitting,  and  Mrs.  Winfield  her  sewing.  Mrs. 
Winfield  kindly  endeavored  to  draw  her  into  conver 
sation,  but  in  vain,  for  Miss  Nancy  had  no  talent  for 

15 


226  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

talking,  or  for  anything  else.  She  had  read  nothing, 
seen  nothing,  heard  nothing,  and  she  knew  nothing, 
and  her  replies  were  little  more  than  monosyllables. 
Mrs.  Winfield,  as  the  morning  was  fine,  had  intended 
going  out ;  but  down  came  Mrs.  Delisle  and  Mary 
Jane,  dressed  for  shopping  and  card  leaving. 

"  As  by  this  time,  my  dear  Emily,  you  must  feel 
quite  at  home  here,"  said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  I  need 
make  no  apology  for  leaving  you  with  Miss  Nancy 
Risings,  who  is  a  very  particular  friend  and  a  great 
favorite  of  mine.  Make  yourself  happy  together  till 
dinner-time,  for  I  doubt  if  we  can  get  home  much  be 
fore."  And  out  they  sallied,  leaving  Mrs.  Winfield 
to  feel  very  much  as  if  caught  in  a  trap.  But  her 
good  nature  prevailed  ;  and  having  by  this  time 
learned  to  consider  her  visit  as  a  salutary  trial  of 
patience,  she  proceeded  with  the  heavy  task  of  enter 
taining  the  unentertainable  Miss  Nancy. 

At  noon  the  boys  rushed  home  and  behaved  as 
usual.  Mrs.  Delisle  and  her  daughter,  being  very 
tired  with  running  about  all  the  morning,  put  on  un 
dresses  to  come  to  dinner  in,  and  the  dinner  proceed 
ings  were  the  same  as  the  day  before. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Winfield  took  her 
leave  and  terminated  her  visit,  having  as  she  truly 
said,  some  purchases  to  make  previous  to  leaving 
town  next  morning  for  Boston.  Mrs.  Delisle  pro 
fessed  great  regret  at  the  departure  of  her  dear 
Emily,  and  hoped  that  whenever  she  came  to  Phila 
delphia  she  would  always  make  a  point  of  staying  at 
her  house.  Mary  Jane  expressed  much  disappoint- 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  227 

ment  at  Mrs.  Winfield  leaving  them  that  evening ; 
and  she  really  felt  it,  as  she  knew  that  it  would  now 
fall  to  her  lot  to  get  Miss  Nancy  through  the  remain 
der  of  the  day. 

We  need  not  inform  our  readers  with  what  satis 
faction  Mrs.  Winfield  found  herself  that  evening 
again  at  the  hotel,  and  in  the  society  of  the  refined 
and  intelligent  friends  with  whom  she  was  traveling 
to  Boston,  to  visit  a  brother,  who  had  married  and 
settled  there. 

Mr.  Delisle  did  not  return  for  three  weeks,  having 
extended  his  journey  to  the  far  East.  The  first  thing 
he  told  on  his  arrival  at  home  was,  that  he  had  been 
at  a  wedding  the  evening  before  he  left  Boston,  and 
that  the  bride  was  Mrs.  Winfield. 

Great  surprise  was  expressed  by  Mrs.  Delisle  and 
Mary  Jane,  and  they  were  still  more  amazed  to  hear 
that  the  bridegroom,  Mr.  Stanley,  was  a  Southern 
gentleman  of  large  property,  and  of  high  standing  in 
every  respect.  Having  become  acquainted  with 
Mrs.  Winfield  at  Washington,  he  had  followed  her 
to  Boston  as  soon  as  Congress  broke  up,  (it  was  one 
of  the  long  sessions)  and  had  there  prevailed  on  her 
to  return  with  him  as  his  wife.  They  were  married 
at  her  brother's,  and  were  going  home  by  way  of  the 
lakes,  and,  therefore,  should  not  pass  through  Phila 
delphia. 

"  How  very  extraordinary,  Mary  Jane,"  said  Mrs. 
Delisle  to  her  daughter  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 
"  Who  could  have  guessed  the  possibility  of  that 
plain-looking  little  woman  making  a  great  match  ? 


228  MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT. 

I  remember  hearing,  when  she  married  Mr.  Winfield, 
that  he  was  by  no  means  rich,  and  I  knew  nothing 
about  the  people  she  was  traveling  with  ;  therefore, 
I  did  not  see  the  necessity  of  putting  myself  the 
least  out  of  the  way  on  her  account.  Still,  if  I  had 
had  the  smallest  idea  of  her  so  soon  becoming  Mrs. 
Stanley,  the  wife  of  a  rich  man  and  a  member  of 
Congress,  I  should  certainly  have  dressed  myself, 
and  received  her  in  the  front  parlor  instead  of  the 
nursery,  and  had  nice  things  for  dinner,  and  invited 
some  of  my  best  people  to  meet  her  in  the  eve 
ning—" 

"  And  not  sent  for  Miss  Nancy  Risings,"  inter 
rupted  Mary  Jane.  "  Well,  mamma,  I  think  we 
have  made  a  bad  business  of  it ;  and,  to  say  the 
truth,  I  was  actually  ashamed,  more  than  once,  to 
see  the  way  things  were  going  on.  As  to  the  boys, 
I  am  glad  papa  is  going  to  send  them  all  to  that 
Boston  boarding-school ;  the  farther  from  home,  the 
better  for  themselves  and  us.  It  will  be  such  a  re 
lief  to  get  rid  of  them." 

In  the  most  private  confabulation  between  the 
mother  and  daughter,  "  Only  think,  Mary  Jane," 
said  Mrs.  Delisle,  "  your  father  tells  me  that  the 
family  Mrs.  Winfield  was  traveling  with  is  one  of 
the  very  first  in  Boston,  quite  at  the  head  of  society  ; 
immensely  wealthy,  and  living  in  almost  a  palace — 
such  people  as  we  never  had  in  our  house.  What  a 
pity  we  did  not  know  who  they  were  ;  we  might 
have  derived  so  much  eclat  from  them.  If  Mrs. 
Winfield  had  given  me  any  reason  to  suppose  that 


MRS.  WINFIELD'S  VISIT.  229 

her  friends  could  be  persons  of  that  description,  I 
would  have  invited  them  all  in  the  evening,  and 
strained  every  nerve  to  get  some  of  our  most  fashion 
able  people  to  meet  them,  and  I  would  have  had 
Carrol  and  Jelb  both,  and  ice-cream,  and  blanc 
mange,  and  champagne,  and  all  such  things — but 
how  was  I  to  suppose  that  little  Mrs.  Winfield,  with 
her  plain  gown  and  cap,  was  likely  to  have  had  such 
acquaintances,  or  to  make  such  a  match  ?  I  wish  I 
had  not  treated  her  so  unceremoniously ;  but  I  am 
sure  I  thought  it  could  never  be  worth  while  to  put 
myself  the  least  out  of  the  way  for  HER." 

"  You  see,  mother,"  said  Mary  Jane,  "  in  this,  as 
in  many  other  instances,  you  have  overreached  your 
self.  Your  plans  never  seem  to  come  out  well." 

"  I  believe,"  replied  Mrs.  Delisle,  "your  father's 
notions  of  things  are,  after  all,  the  best,  and  I  shall 
pay  more  regard  to  them  in  the  future.  Mary  Jane, 
be  sure  you  tell  him  no  particulars  of  Mrs.  Win- 
field's  visit." 


I<ife  of 


— n  was  too  much  of  a  politican  to 
have  any  deep  sympathy  or  respect  for  a 
soldier  educated  to  his  profession.  Indeed,  so  lively 
was  his  distrust  of  every  officer  who  had  been  in 
the  regular  army,  that  he  would,  at  times,  treat  with 
indifference,  and  even  with  discourtesy,  men  whose 
services  the  country  needed  most. 

He  was  inclined,  also,  to  underrate  the  merits  of 
his  own  countrymen,  and  to  give  precedence  to 
foreigners.  Mr.  C.,  as  well  as  his  successor,  was 
unfortunate  in  falling  into  the  popular  error  of  his 
party,  that  fighting  battles  and  gaining  victories  was 
the  business  of  politicians  and  reformers,  and  that  if 
you  gave  a  soldier  an  odd  job  now  and  then,  when 
his  sword  got  rusty,  it  was  merely  to  have  him  show 
how  far  he  was  behind  the  spirit  of  the  times.  All 
history  teaches  that  the  badly  educated  politician 
lives  in  continual  fear  of  the  overshadowing  figure  of 
the  soldier.  The  good  soldier  may  be  a  very  useful 
thing  to  have  at  hand  when  there  is  immediate  dan 
ger,  when  his  firm  nerve  is  necessary  to  the  politi 
cian's  safety.  But,  once  the  danger  is  over,  the 
politician  will  mount  his  feathers  and  seek  for  a 


THE    LIFE    OF   THE   SOLDIER.  231 

closet,  where  he  can  keep  the  soldier  until  it  suits  his 
convenience  to  give  him  another  job.  The  man  who 
has  sought  and  gained  political  power,  over,  a  road 
both  crooked  and  muddy  ;  who  never  had  a  con 
science  to  accuse  him  when  selling  the  souls  of  some 
men,  and  baying  the  votes  of  others,  is  not  the  man 
to  appreciate  the  spirit  of  chivalry  which  rules  in 
the  heart  of  every  true  soldier.  His  thoughts  are 
fettered  and  his  actions  narrowed  by  the  very  means 
he  was  forced  to  use  to  gain  his  position,  which  he 
holds  without  finding  any  real  favor  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people,  such  being  secured  only  where  there  is 
true  worth. 

I  must  here,  at  this  time  and  place,  relate  some  pleas 
ing  memories  of  the  First  New  York  Cavalry.  It- has 
been  charged,  and  very  unjustly  I  think,  that  Mr. 
Wood  had  selfish  motives  in  thus  setting  up  for  a  po 
litical  saint ;  that  his  regiment  was  raised,  not  so  much 
to  put  down  rebellion,  as  to  keep  life  in  political  enter 
prises  he  had  invested  capital  in,  and  which  he  was 
afraid  would  be  swept  into  the  dead  sea  of  the  past. 
But  it  must  be  remembered  that  all  great  and  good 
men  have  in  all  ages  been  charged  with  selfishness, 
and  I  see  no  good  reason  why  Mr.  Wood  should  not 
be  added  toj;he  long  list  of  worthy  persons  who  have 
been  martyrs  to  their  intentions,  rather  than  heroes 
to  their  ambition.  Strange  to  say,  the  officers  all 
seemed  to  repudiate  their  great  benefactor,  against 
whom  several  of  them  pronounced  maledictions  I 
would  protest  against  their  writing  on  my  tombstone. 
This  I  charged  to  the  ingratitude  common  among 


232        THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

mankind,  and  not  to  any  want  of  integrity  shown  by 
Mr.  Wood  when  he  squared  his  account  current  with 
the  regiment.  But  as  Mr.  Wood  will  not  thank  me 
for  writing  either  his  political  or  military  history,  and 
fearing  lest  my  labor  of  love  may  be  lost  on  the 
reader,  I  will  return  to  the  Union  Defense  Com 
mittee. 

I  have  said  we  got  no  money  from  this  committee. 
We  did.  After  several  applications  to  other  mem 
bers,  General  Dix  generously  came  forward  in  our 
behalf  and  procured  for  us  the  sum  of  five  hundred 
dollars.  Small  as  this  sum  was,  considering  the 
magnitude  of  our  enterprise  and  the  obligations  we 
had  already  incurred,  it  came  like  a  fresh  gleam  of 
sunlight  through  dark  and  discouraging  clouds,  cheer 
ing  our  spirits,  and  giving  new  life  to  our  energies. 
The  committee  had,  perhaps,  good  reasons  for  not 
giving  us  more.  Some  of  its  members  told  us  what 
had  become  a  stale  story:  "  It  was  not  certain  that 
cavalry  would  be  called  for.  The  authorities  at 
Washington  had  advised  raising  infantry  and  artillery 
for  immediate  use.  And  cavalry  regiments  were  so 
expensive  ;  volunteer  cavalry  could  not  be  depended 
on,  and  the  country  we  had  to  operate  in  was "  not 
suited  to  the  maneuvering  of  mounted  troops."  Such 
were  the  objections  we  had  to  overcome  and  work 
against. 

But  we  had  lost  O'Meara,  one  of  our  best  spirits. 
Frank,  outspoken,  manly  in  his  every  act,  and  with 
as  true  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  a  brave  Irishman,  he 
had  served  his  country  faithfully  in  the  field  when 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER.  283 

his  superiors  had  turned  traitors.  Like  a  good 
patriot,  he  was  again  impatient  to  show  his  strength 
in  doing  battle  for  her  cause.  He  had  given  us  his 
services  willingly,  and  without  remuneration,  and  his 
prompt,  soldierlike  bearing  had  endeared  him  to  us 
all.  Being  doubtful  of  our  success,  he  was  offered 
and  accepted  a  commission  in  the  Tammany  regiment, 
with  which,  as  I  have  said  before,  he  distinguished 
himself  for  great  coolness  and  bravery. 

Our  group  of  leading  spirits,  as  assembled  of  a  morn 
ing  in  the  little  office  at  Palace  Gardens,  to  talk  over 
the  affairs  of  the  nation,  and  our  own  troubles,  would 
have  formed  a  fine  subject  for  the  pencil  of  Eastman 
Johnson.  There  was  the  meditative  Stearns,  his 
bright  bald  head  and  his  kindly  face  ;  never  out  of 
temper,  and  ready  to  accept  disappointment  without 
a  sigh,  to  look  at  the  bright  side  of  everything,  and 
never  say  give  up  while  there  was  a  hope. 

Harkins,  who  had  played  on  many  a  stage,  was 
ready  now  to  entertain  us  with  his  amusing  stories, 
his  quaint  humor,  and  his  inspiriting  laugh.  Active 
and  impulsive,  he  would  make  various  incursions  into 
Jersey  ;  recount  the  wonderful  progress  our  regiment 
was  making  to  his  friends  there,  and  come  away  with 
a  number  of  their  names  on  his  roll.  And  these 
pleasant  adventures  after  recruits  he  would  recount 
to  us  in  the  morning,  in  his  amusing  style.  There, 
too,  was  Bailey,  whom  we  had  all  come  to  love  for  his 
cool  nonchalance,  his  activity,  and  his  genial  quali 
ties,  and  his  readiness  to  invite  us  all  to  the  Woodbine 
over  the  Avay,  where  he  would  spend  his  last  dollar 


234  THE   LIFE    OP   THE   SOLDIER. 

for  what  is  known  among  the  soldiers  as  "  brotherly 
love,"  to  keep  their  spirits  up.  And  there  was 
Leavitt,  (the  indomitable  Tom)  never  behind  any 
man  when  there  was  work  to  be  done.  The  hand 
some  Harry  Hidder,  rather  impatient  to  get  to  the 
field,  so  prim  in  his  attire,  his  black,  piercing  eyes 
warm  with  intelligence,  and  a  curl  of  manly  contempt 
on  his  lips  for  those  who  were  desponding  and  ready 
to  give  up  the  enterprise  in  despair.  Fancy  this 
group  forming  a  half  circle,  with  the  soldierly  Ogle 
(well  known  in  the  regular  army)  for  a  central  figure, 
and  you  have  a  band  of  as  companionable  and  genial 
spirits  as  ever  sat  together,  discoursing  their  future 
prospects  in  the  field.  Nor  must  I  forget  to  men 
tion  a  group  that  usually  assembled  outside  and  held 
their  deliberations  on  the  pavement.  This  was  com 
posed  of  the  big  politician,  whom  the  wits  inside  had 
begun  to  use  as  a  fit  subject  for  their  jokes,  and 
whose  wonderful  stories  of  himself  had  ceased  to  have 
effect,  except  on  the  mind  of  some  new  recruit.  The 
melancholy  man  in  black,  who  had  taught  cavalry 
tactics  over  the  border,  and  was  always  in  a  despond 
ing  mood,  was  sure  we  never  could  raise  the  regiment, 
solely  because  we  did  not  follow  his  advice.  Between 
the  big  politician  and  the  melancholy  man  there  had 
sprung  up  a  fellow-feeling  which"  it  was  difficult  to 
understand  or  appreciate,  since  they  were  opposite, 
mentally  and  physically.  The  one  had  a  big  saber, 
and  wore  long,  square-toed  boots.  The  other  had 
been  a  hero  in  the  Mexican  War.  The  little  dark- 
visaged  major  of  Venezuelan  fame,  fraternized  with 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER.        235 

this  outside  group,  and,  indeed,  gave  light  and  shade, 
if  not  picturesqueness,  to  it.  He  was  always  ready 
to  join  the  big  politician  over  his  cups,  but  would 
never  agree  with  him  on  a  question  of  arms.  And 
he  would  dispute  for  an  hour  with  the  melancholy  man 
over  horseflesh,  and  his  skill  in  the  use  of  the  saber. 

I  noticed  that  all  three  of  these  distinguished 
officers  were  much  more  inclined  to  waste  time  ia 
disputes  on  their  own  skill,  than  to  engage  in  the 
more  urgent  business  of  bringing  in  recruits.  The 
best  recruiting  officers  were  those  freest  from  self-lau 
dation. 

Bidder  would  attend  of  a  morning  to  the  recruits, 
inspire  them  with  confidence  as  to  our  success,  and 
whisper  such  words  of  encouragement  in  their  ears 
as  would  make  them  feel  impatient  to  be  in  the  field. 
If  the  recruit  were  an  old  soldier,  he  was  sure  to 
want  a  dollar  or  two.  He  must  drink  our  health ; 
he  must  have  success  to  our  regiment  in  a  square 
drink  or  two  with  a  comrade,  who  had  served  with 
him  during  some  war  in  Europe.  If  there  were  a 
few  shillings  left,  he  would  use  it  in  first  wetting  the 
comrade's  eye,  and  then  fastening  him  on  the  rolls. 
In  this  way,  the  old  soldiers  would  empty  Harry's 
pockets,  for  he  had  a  kind  heart,  and  could  not  re 
sist  the  appeal  of  a  soldier.  It  must  be  remembered, 
also,  that  at  that  day  men  were  not  bought  to 
serve  their  country  with  corrupting  bounties. 

Through  the  exertions  of  Ogle,  Bailey,  and  Jones, 
Company  A  was  nearly  full.  Todd  was  encourag 
ing  his  recruits  with  a  few  dollars  each,  and  being 


236        THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

popular  with  his  men,  was  nearly  ready  to  muster  in. 
Harkins  wanted  but  a  few  men  to  complete  his  num 
ber,  and  Stearns  and  Hidder,  both  ready  to  help  a 
friend  when  he  needed,  had  got  a  large  number  of 
men  enrolled.  Some  of  the  officers  looked  on  Steams' 
men  with  longing  eyes,  and  would  occasionally  send 
an  old  soldier  into  their  ranks,  with  a  view  to  making 
them  comrades  in  his  own  company.  And  this  the 
old  soldier  generally  did,  with  a  few  glasses  of  whis 
ky,  and  a  dollar  or  two.  These  little  raids  were  con 
ducted  with  perfect  good  nature,  and  as  the  sweet 
spirit  of  love  ruled  paramount  in  Stearns'  character, 
he  was  generally  selected  as  the  subject  of  them. 
About  this  time,  a  little  boyish  and  beardless  man, 
of  the  name  of  Bennett,  brought  a  company  down 
from  Syracuse,  where  he  had  raised  it.  I,  doubt 
if  Syracuse  will  ever  sufficiently  repay  Captain  Ben 
nett  for  relieving  her  of  that  motley  collection  of 
men,  many  of  whom  must  have  been  a  terror  to  the 
place.  The  question  was  frequently  asked,  where 
this  young,  innocent-looking  man,  who  dressed  with 
scrupulous  care,  had  picked  up  such  a  combination 
of  human  nature  in  its  lowest  form.  Hogarth  could 
not  have  drawn  a  better  cartoon  of  human  depravity 
as  pictured  in  the  faces  of  these  men.  There  was 
the  model  Bowery  boy,  as  we  used  to  see  him  twenty 
years  ago,  with  his  oily  head,  his  expansive  gar 
ments,  and  his  love  for  brass  buttons.  There,  too, 
was  the  thick-framed  and  bullet-headed  shoulder- 
hitter,  ready  always  to  settle  a  private  quarrel  with 
friend  or  foe.  There,  too,  was  the  wild,  ungovernable 


THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER.  237 

youth,  the  misfortune  of  his  parents,  who  were  glad 
to  get  him  into  the  army,  as  a  fit  place  to  reform  his 
morals.  These  men  seemed  never  without  a  quarrel. 
Indeed,  the  company  enjoyed  a  perpetual  state  of 
war,  and  when  its  members  were  not  fighting  among 
themselves,  which  was  seldom,  they  were  disturbing 
the  peace  of  the  neighborhood.  Their  officers  had 
no  control  over  them,  and  an  attempt  to  enforce  disci 
pline  entailed  a  risk  they  were  not  willing  to  under 
take.  Indeed,  the  officers  were  inclined  to  treat 
their  men  on  those  terms  of  equality  common  among 
men  in  a  country  town,  but  which  cannot  be  carried 
into  the  army  without  destroying  discipline.  And 
here  let  me  mention  that  the  class  of  men  I  have 
just  described  are  rarely  to  be  depended  on  in  battle. 
Captain  Harkins  was  the  first  to  fill  his  company, 
and  after  the  excitement  incident  to  the  election  of 
officers,  which  in  many  cases  was  a  mere  matter  of 
form,  the  men  Avere  marched  to  the  arsenal  in  Center 
Street,  and  the  process  of  mustering  in  gone  through. 
With  some  men,  mustering  in  is  a  test  of  courage. 
The  timid  see  in  it  a  solemn  obligation  to  serve  the 
country  as  a  soldier  for  a  term  of  years,  to  submit 
to  all  the  rigors  of  martial  law,  to  undergo  all  the 
vexations  and  hardships  of  camp  life,  to  face  death 
in  battle,  and — which  is  more  trying  to  the  patriotic 
spirit  of  every  honest  soldier — to  submit  tamely  to 
the  tyranny  and  insults  of  officers  unfit,  as  well  by 
birth  as  education,  to  be  their  superiors.  Many  a 
man,  anxious  to  do  his  part  in  putting  down  the 
rebellion,  ponders  these  things  over  in  his  mind,  until 


238  THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

fear  gains  the  victory,  and  he  falls  out,  unwilling  to 
take  the  oath  that  is  to  make  him  a  soldier.  Instances 
of  this  kind  occurred  when  our  first  company  was 
being  mustered  in.  Several  who  had  marched  in 
the  ranks  to  the  arsenal,  dropped  out  before  the  oath 
was  administered,  and  at  one  time  it  was  doubtful 
if  we  should  get  the  requisite  number.  The  com 
pany,  however,  was  mustered  in  without  a  man  to 
spare.  And  then  there  was  great  cheering,  great 
shaking  of  hands  among  the  men,  and  exchange  of 
congratulations  between  officers.  A  major-general 
commanding  a  corps  never  felt  prouder  than  did 
Harkins  as  he  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
men  he  said  he  was  to  lead  in  battle,  addressing 
them  words  of  encouragement.  This  was  to  be  a 
new  phase  of  his  life.  The  stage  was  a  new  one  to 
him,  and  the  part  he  had  to  play  was  strange  and 
novel.  Company  B  (Captain  Todd)  was  the  next 
to  muster  in,  and  presented  a  fine  appearance,  for  it 
was  composed  of  men  of  a  superior  class. 

The  companies,  as  fast  as  mustered  in  and  pro 
vided  with  tents,  were  sent  to  camp  in  the  breezy 
shades  of  Elm  Park,  to  which  the  tents  of  our  Ger 
man  companies  had  already  given  a  picturesque 
and  martial  look.  We  had  great  trouble  in  getting 
the  company  of  plug  ruffians  from  Syracuse  mustered 
in.  Some  of  them  left  or  strayed  away  as  soon  as 
they  reached  New  York,  and  it  was  with  great  diffi 
culty  respectable  recruits  could  be  got  to  take  their 
places.  Day  after  day  the  mustering  officer  was 
summoned,  and  as  often  had  to  go  away  disappointed. 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SOLDIER.  239 

Some  of  them  would  be  away  enjoying  a  fight  with  a 
friend ;  others  might  have  been  found  at  some  bar 
room,  disabled  by  the  too  free  use  of  whisky.  At 
length,  through  the  influence  and  superior  energy  of 
one  Sergeant  McCormack,  the  only  man  that  seemed 
to  have  any  control  over  them,  the  requisite  number 
was  got,  arid  they  were  mustered  and  sent  to  camp, 
much  to  the  relief  of  the  neighborhood  and  every 
one  about  head-quarters.  Stearns  and  Hidder,  be 
tween  whom  there  existed  feelings  that  had  grown 
and  ripened  into  the  truest  friendship,  had  generous 
ly  given  their  men  to  assist  others  in  filling  up  their 
companies,  and  neglected  themselves.  They  were 
now  without  men  enough  to  muster  in,  and  how  to 
obtain  them  was  a  very  difficult  problem  to  solve. 
Some  of  the  means  we  had  *to  resort  to  at  times  to 
get  a  man  or  two,  in  order  to  make  up  the  number  re 
quired  by  the  regulations,  were  really  of  the  meanest 
kind,  although  they  afforded  us  some  amusement. 
In  one  case,  where  it  was  found  that  we  only  lucked 
two  men  to  fill  up  a  company,  a  sergeant  and  two 
men  (old  soldiers)  went  out  on  a  raid,  and  soon  re 
turned  with  a  smutty  blacksmith,  to  whom  they  had 
given  five  dollars  to  come  and  be  mustered  in  for  a 
soldier.  This  was  given  him,  with  the  assurance  that 
as  soon  as  mustered  in  he  might  go  free.  But  the 
blacksmith  was  suspicious  that  we  were  setting  a 
trap  for  him,  exhibited  much  uneasiness  during  the 
process  of  being  made  a  soldier,  and  was  quick  to 
take  his  departure  as  soon  as  the  ceremony  was 
over.  The  raiders  also  made  forcible  seizure  of  a 


240  THE    LIFE    OP    THE    SOLDIER. 

poor,  inoffensive-looking  baker,  on  his  way  to  his 
master's  customers  with  a  basket  of  loaves.  The 
poor  baker  was  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  and  lustily 
pleaded  the  necessity  of  getting  bread  to  his  master's 
customers  in  time  for  dinner.  He  was  told  that  he 
would  get  five  dollars  to  come  and  be  sworn  in  for  a 
soldier ;  after  that  he  might  go  where  he  pleased. 
But  he  was  not  inclined  to  understand  this  way  of 
making  a  bargain.  He  declared  he  did  not  want  to 
go  for  a  soldier ;  was,  indeed,  a  poor  but  honest  man  ; 
had  a  family  of  small  children,  with  stomachs  to  fill, 
and  would  never  get  absolution  if  he  took  an  oath  he 
did  not  intend  to  respect.  The  absolution  seemed 
to  trouble  him  the  most.  But  the  sergeant  and  his 
comrades  were  insensible  to  these  appeals,  and  while 
one  took  charge  of  his"  basket  of  loaves,  the  others 
brought  him  by  force  into  the  building,  where  they 
threatened  to  hang  him  unless  he  consented  to  be 
sworn  in  as  a  trooper.  The  poor  fellow  consented  at 
last,  though  in  great  fear  that  this  was  only  a  plan  to 
deprive  him  of  his  liberty.  Indeed,  it  was  with 
great  difficulty  he  could  be  kept  from  breaking  away 
during  the  ceremony  of  mustering  in.  When  it  was 
over,  he  was  given  the  five  dollars,  and  speedily  went 
about  his  business,  declaring,  by  the  saints,  he  would 
never  be  caught  in  such  a  scrape  again.  Many 
amusing  incidents  of  this  kind  might  be  related, 
showing  to  what  straits  we  were  at  times  put,  to  get 
one  or  two  men  to  fill  up  a  company. 

The  time  had  now  come  for  mustering  in  Company 
A,  about  which  the  big  politician  had  caused  us  so 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER.  241 

much  delay  and  trouble.  We  had  seen  nothing  of 
either  him,  or  the  melancholy  man  in  black,  for  sev 
eral  days,  and  fears  were  entertained,  not  that  they 
had  taken  final  leave  of  us,  but  that  they  bad  car 
ried  off  the  little  bugler  for  some  selfish  purpose.  It 
was  very  well  understood  that  no  man  could  blow  his 
own  trumpet  better  than  the  big  politician,  and  what 
need  the  melancholy  man  in  black  could  have  for  the 
little  bugler,  unless  it  was  to  carry  his  weighty  saber, 
none  of  us  could  tell.  Nor  could  we  understand  the 
remarkable  and  deep  sympathy  existing  between  the 
melancholy  man  and  the  big  politician,  for  while 
the  latter  was  a  man  of  huge  stomach  and  small 
brain,  a  Falstaffin  vanity,  and  exceedingly  illiterate, 
the  former  was  a  man  of  cultivated  tastes  ;  indeed,  he 
was  something  of  an  artist,  as  well  as  a  poet,  and  was 
given  to  writing  sonnets  to  ladies,  and  painting  flow 
ers  for  their  albums.  Just  as  the  company  was  about 
to  proceed  to  the  election  of  officers,  we  were  all  sur 
prised  to  see  the  big  politician  come  tramping  into 
the  circle,  in  all  his  magnificence,  followed  by  the 
melancholy  man  in  black  and  the  little  shark-mouthed 
bugler.  He  stood  expanding  himself  for  a  few  min 
utes  ;  then  began  circulating  among,  and  conversing 
with,  the  men.  One  or  two  of  them  assured  him  he 
was  immensely  popular  with  every  man  in  the  com 
pany,  and  would  undoubtedly  be  elected  their  cap 
tain.  This  gave  him  encouragement.  He  was  sure 
they  could  not  desire  a  more  war-like  leader,  and  he 
warned  them  not  to  forget  how  great  a  responsibility 
they  were  about  to  assume,  and  how  necessary  it 

16 


242        THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

was  that  they  elect  men  of  first-rate  military  talent, 
and  gentlemen,  for  officers.  Such  qualities,  he  was 
proud  to  say,  he  had  been  told  he  possessed,  but  that 
was  neither  here  nor  there  ;  he  had  seen  service  in 
Mexico. 

Now  the  men  of  this  company  were  remarkable 
for  their  intelligence,  and  received  what  the  big  pol 
itician  said  as  a  very  good  off-set  to  the  joke  they 
were  attempting  to  play  on  him.  Indeed,  they  in 
duced  him  to  write  a  vote  for  every  man,  to  whom  he 
gave  particular  instructions  what  to  do  with  it.  But 
to  the  great  surprise  of  all  those  not  in  the  secret, 
when  the  votes  came  to  be  opened  and  counted,  they 
were  all  for  Ogle,  who  was  proclaimed  captain,  with 
loud  cheers. 

IN    CAMP. 

Our  little  town  under  canvas,  as  it  nestled  among 
the  deep  green  foliage  and  under  the  breezy  shade 
of  the  tall  trees  of  Elm  Park,  was  fast  filling  up 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  people.  It  began,  too,  to 
put  on  a  busy  and  military  air.  The  Germans  and 
Americans  had  drawn  well  defined  lines  of  demark- 
ation,  and  indeed  pitched  their  tents  on  separate 
ground.  There  were  Austrians,  Prussians,  and 
Hungarians  composing  the  former  ;  and,  as  a  natural 
result,  there  was  at  times  some  bad  blood  manifested 
between  the  nationalities.  The  Irish  and  Scotch 
joined  the  American  companies  ;  the  former  always 
being  ready  for  a  fight  with  "  the  Dutchmen,"  as 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER.  243 

they  called  the  Germans.  Now  arid  then  they 
amused  us  with  a  little  tongue-fight  across  the  street, 
in  which  sundry  challenges  would  be  sent  and  re 
turned  ;  an  Irishman  offering  to  bet  a  bottle  of 
whisky — of  which  dangerous  fluid  he  had  taken  a 
little  too  much — that  he  could  whip  six  Dutchmen  ; 
or  a  German  offering  to  bet  a  keg  of  lager  that  he 
could  whip  ten  Irishmen  before  eating  his  supper. 
Sometimes  these  tongue  battles  ended  with  an  Irish 
man  and  a  Dutchman  being  sent  to  the  guard-house, 
to  keep  company  and  cultivate  more  friendly  rela 
tions.  Not  unfrequently  these  quarrels  were  in  pan 
tomime  of  the  fiercest  description,  one  party  not 
understanding  a  word  of  what  the  other  said. 

This  camp  life  has  its  quaint  lights  and  shades. 
It  develops  and  brings  boldly  out  all  the  good  and 
bad  qualities  of  men — all  their  virtues  and  their 
vices.  Here  the  genfle  and  generous  nature  per 
forms  its  mission  of  good  for  others.  Here  the  firm 
will  and  the  stout  heart  of  the  physically  weak  rise 
superior,  and  arrest  their  dignity  over  the  man  of 
coarse  nature.  Strange  associations  are  formed  in 
camp;  warm,  sincere,  and  enduring  friendships 
spring  up  between  men,  and  will  be  remembered  and 
cherished  through  life.  Charity  takes  a  broader 
range  in  camp ;  heart  meets  heart  in  all  its  longings  ; 
strangers  from  a  distance  meet  to  become  friends  and 
brothers ;  tent  shares  its  bread  and  its  bottle  with 
tent  next  door,  and  the  faults  and  follies  of  men  are 
judged  in  a  more  generous  and  Christian  spirit 
than  that  which  rules  in  higher  places.  Here, 


244  THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

over  a  pipe,  after  taps,  the  man  who  has  roamed 
over  the  world  in  search  of  fortune,  relates  his 
strange  adventures  to  his  listening  companions, 
whose  sympathies  he  touches  and  whose  bounty 
he  is  sure  to  share,  for  the  world's  unfortunates 
always  find  a  warm  friend  in  the  true  soldier. 
In  camp,  as  our  army  is  composed,  rich  and 
poor  meet  in  the  ranks  as  equals,  and  the  edu 
cated  and  the  ignorant  find  shelter  under  one  tent. 
They  are  here  as  brothers,  enlisted  for  a  common 
purpose,  to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  against  a  fierce 
enemy,  and  fight  to  preserve  the  very  life  of  their 
country.  And  the  arm  finds  strength  when  sure 
that  true  friends  are  near. 

We  had  reached  that  stage  when  the  realities  of 
a  soldier's  life,  and  what  was  before  us  during  the 
three  years  of  our  enlistment,  became  subjects  of  con 
versation.  What  dangers  we  would  have  to  share, 
what  hardships  we  should  have  to  undergo,  what 
scenes  of  blood  to  witness,  and  perhaps  participate 
in  ;  how  many  of  us  would  fall  in  battle,  or  die  of 
disease  and  neglect ;  how  many  of  us  would  return 
to  recount  in  pleasant  homes  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
war  our  regiment  had  passed  through,  were  subjects 
of  contemplation  as  well  as  conversation. 

These  subjects,  too,  were  much  enlarged  by  the 
old  soldiers,  who  found  apparent  delight  in  exciting 
the  fears  of  the  timid  and  hesitating.  Love,  also,  had 
leaped  the  gates  of  our  camp,  and  we  had  more  than 
one  case  where  the  tender  passion  was  yielding  to 
the  charm  of  Mars.  Every  fine  afternoon,  a  pretty, 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE   SOLDIER.  245 

elastic-stepping  girl  of  eighteen  used  to  come  tripping 
over  the  lawn,  her  black  braided  hair  arranged  in 
such  beautiful  folds,  arid  her  eyes  beaming  with  love 
and  tenderness,  to  see  one  of  our  handsome  captains. 
We  had  several,  and  they  were  just  out  in  bright 
new  uniforms,  which  gave  them  quite  a  soldierly  ap 
pearance.  The  other  captains  envied  this  one  the 
beautiful  captive  he  was  soon,  as  report  had  it,  to 
carry  off.  He  would  meet  her  half  way  down  the 
lawn,  and  there  was  something  for  a  bachelor  to  envy 
in  the  sweet  smile  that  played  over  her  pale,  oval 
face  as  the  distance  shortened  between  them.  Then 
there  was  the  warm,  hearty  shake  of  the  hand ;  he 
had  a  sly  but  honest  way  of  imprinting  a  kiss  on  her 
peachy  cheek.  And  there  were  other  little  love 
tokens,  so  tenderly  expressed,  that  it  needed  only  a 
glance  to  read  in  them  how  truly  heart  was  speaking 
to  heart.  She  would  always  bring  him  some  little 
present.  Then  they  would  stroll  together  to  the 
tent  door,  and  sit  talking  their  heart  secrets  until 
some  duty  called  him  away.  I  have  seen  her  sit 
working  some  piece  of  worsted  for  him,  her  soft  eyes 
looking  up  lovingly  in  his  face,  as  his  hand  stole 
under  her  shawl,  and  almost  unconsciously  around 
her  waist.  And  then  he  bid  her  such  an  envied 
good-bye,  as  he  left  her  at  the  gate,  and  waved  his 
handkerchief,  as  she  turned  when  half  down  the  lane 
to  toss  a  last  fond  adieu  for  the  night.  This  was  the 
high  noon  of  their  love  dream,  and  heaven  was 
sweetening  the  enchantment  with  the  perfume  of 
flowers. 


246        THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

And  there  was  a  pretty,  blue-eyed  blonde,  with 
round  cherub-like  face,  and  curls  the  breeze  used  to 
play  with,  as  she  came  trip j ing  with  such  artless 
gaiety  down  the  lawn,  to  see  one  of  our  dashing 
ieu tenants.  Her  tight-fitting  boddice,  cut  after  the 
fashion  of  a  habit,  gave  a  bewitching  roundness  to 
her  form ;  and  there  was  something  so  childish,  so 
artless  in  her  manners,  that  it  seemed  as  if  heaven 
had  blessed  her  with  the  sweetest  of  natures.  We 
called  her  the  June  flower  of  our  camp,  and  gave  her 
a  hearty  welcome,  for  her  presence  was  like  bright 
sunshine  after  a  dark  storm.  She  brought  the  young 
lieutenant  flowers,  put  his  tent  in  order,  and  rol 
licked  about  with  the  air  of  a  girl  just  from  school. 
And  the  young  lieutenant  was  so  proud  of  her,  pat 
ted  her  so  gently  on  the  shoulder,  and  spoke  in  such 
tones  of  kindness.  And  when  they  parted,  I  could 
see  that  a  feeling  of  sadness  invaded  her  light  heart, 
for  a  tear  would  brighten,  like  a  diamond,  in  her 
blue  eyes,  and  then  write  the  story  of  her  love  down 
her  cheeks,  as  she  went  away. 

Our  camp  at  times  would  also  be  enlivened  by  an 
aged,  leather-faced  woman,  in  big  spectacles.  Armed 
with  a  bundle  of  tracts,  she  would  distribute  them 
among  us,  tell  us  what  the  Lord  was  doing  for  us, 
and  how  we  would  need  his  help  in  battle,  and  must 
pray  to  him,  and  read  the  tract  before  we  slept. 
This  aged  lady  was  in  no  very  high  favor  with  our 
parson,  (we  had  got  both  a  parson  and  a  doctor) 
who  regarded  her  efforts  as  an  infringement  of  his 
right  to  get  us  all  made  Christians  in  his  own  way. 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER.        247 

Nor  did  the  doctor  and  the  parson  quite  agree  as  to 
the  best  way  to  save  the  souls  of  soldiers.  Indeed, 
they  too  often  had  their  little  differences  as  to  what 
sort  of  medicine  would  best  improve  the  spiritual  and 
physical  condition  of  the  men.  But  the  doctor  gen 
erally  got  the  best  of  it,  for  he  was  active  and  skill 
ful,  and  what  was  more,  gained  favor  with  the  men 
by  setting  them  good  examples ;  while  the  parson, 
eloquent  enough  in  speech  and  prayer,  was  weak 
in  the  flesh,  and  so  given  to  the  bottle  as  to  become 
its  slave. 

Love  also  had  its  votaries  among  our  German 
companions  across  the  road.  A  little,  frisky  Dutch 
woman,  with  a  bright,  bulging  forehead,  a  face 
like  an  over-fed  doll,  and  dressed  in  pink  and  blue, 
would  come  of  an  afternoon  to  see  little  Bob,  the 
light-horseman.  Bob  was  now  a  lieutenant,  had  a 
tender  and  generous  heart,  and  never  went  into  a 
neighborhood  without  falling  in  love  with  all  the  small 
women  in  it.  There  was  no  happier  being  in  this 
world  than  Bob,  when  the  little,  frisky  Dutch  woman 
sat  at  his  side,  in  front  of  his  tent,  with  empty  beer 
kegs  for  seats.  She  always  brought  something  good 
for  Bob,  which  they  enjoyed  with  the  addition  of  a 
bottle  of  Rhine  wine.  The  captains,  too,  had  their 
jolly,  buxom  wives,  who  came  and  spent  the  day,  set 
ting  their  husbands'  tents  in  order,  preparing  good 
dinners,  and  adding  an  air  of  cheerfulness  to  the 
camp.  Indeed,  our  German  side  of  the  camp  seemed 
to  be  in  favor  with  the  women,  who  brought  abun 
dance  of  good  cheer  to  their  friends. 


248  THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

While  we  were  quietly  smoking  our  pipes  at  head 
quarters  one  morning,  news  came  that  the  big  pol 
itician  had  been  seen  down  town,  in  a  military  cap 
and  yellow  stripes  down  his  breeches.  This  had  a 
look  of  cavalry  in.  it.  Ogle  cast  a  glance  at  Hark- 
ins,  Stearns  exchanged  a  sad  expression  of  face  with 
Hidder,  Harry  turned  to  Bailey,  and  shaking  his 
head,  said  "  if  there  is  any  manhood  left  in  the  fellow, 
he  won't  make  another  attempt  to  get  into  this  regi 
ment." 

"  He  will,"  said  the  man  who  brought  the  news, 
"  he  is  doing  it  now.  He  has  got  authority  from  the 
Colonel  to  raise  a  company  of  Germans  for  this  regi 
ment,  and,  as  he  won't  understand  a  word  they  say, 
much  .happiness  may  he  have  with  them.  And  I 
can  tell  you  this,  too,"  continued  the  man  knowingly, 
"  he  is  raising  money  from  citizens  to  pay  his  re 
cruiting  expenses." 

"Money!"   interrupted    one    of    the    company 
"  why,  where  is  the  fortune  he  has  been  boasting' 
about?     Like  his  common   sense,  we  have  not  seen 
the  color  of  it  yet." 

The  news  was .  indeed  true,  and  cast  a  feeling  of 
sadness  over  the  camp,  since  it  foreshadowed  the 
fact  that  a  man  was  to  be  forced  upon  us  whose  pres 
ence  in  the  regiment  was  sure  to  keep  it  in  perpetual 
trouble.  That  a  man  so  very  unacceptable  to  the 
Americans,  and  who  had  been  rejected  by  them, 
should  have  been  authorized  to  raise  a  company  of 
men  whose  language  he  could  not  speak,  showed  too 
plainly  that  some  grave  wrong  was  to  be  perpe 
trated. 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER.  249 

Now  there  was  a  man  among  the  Germans,  named 
Gustave  Otto,  a  Quixotic  sort  of  person,  who  had 
dashed  about  in  a  gay  uniform,  big  spurs,  and  a 
dangling  saber,  and  otherwise  assumed  the  mighty 
man  of  war.  Otto  had  served  in  the  cavalry  in 
Europe,  knew  something  of  the  tactics,  and  was,  so 
far  as  looks  went,  a  soldier.  But  he  was  inclined  to 
be  cruel,  and  had  an  excessively  bad  temper,  which 
led  him  into  frequent  quarrels  with  his  countrymen. 
He  aspired  to  the  captaincy  of  one  of  the  German 
companies,  but  failing  to  get  a  vote  when  they  were 
organized,  he  was  left  outside.  In  truth,  the  men  were 
afraid  of  him,  just  as  ours  were  of  the  big  politician. 
These  two  men  now  joined  interests,  and  with  the  ad 
dition  of  the  melancholy  man,  who  still  wore  his  black 
clothes,  formed  a  sort  of  mutual  sympathy  society  ; 
for  I  must  here  mention  that  the  last  named  gentle 
man,  having  failed  to  get  a  position  in  the  regiment, 
had  taken  to  writing  poetry  of  a  heavy  order.  This 
trio  of  forsaken  men  now  held  frequent  meetings, 
discussed  their  misfortunes  over  frothy  lager,  and 
were  joined  by  the  parson,  who  evinced  remarkable 
sympathy  for  them,  and  would  share  their  cups  until 
his  mind  got  into  a  lofty  mood. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Father  Ruley  had  a  free  use  of 
blarney  when  under  the  influence  of  his  cups,  and 
it  was  seldom  he  was  not. 

"  Faith,  gentlemen,  there  never  was  such  injured 
men  as  yourselves  since  the  world  began.  Leave 
the  matter  to  me,  and  I  '11  have  the  three  of  you 
generals  after  the  war 's  over,"  he  would  say. 


250        THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

But  if  they  found  sympathy  in  the  parson,  they 
were  as  thoroughly  hated  by  the  doctor,  who  was  a 
man  of  courage,  and  said  what  he  thought  of  them 
to  their  faces.  I  verily  believe  he  would  have  found 
pleasure  in  making  a  pill  to  send  them  all  to  the 
devil,  and  end  the  mischief.  He  was  willing  to  ex 
cuse  the  parson's  getting  a  little  tipsy  at  times,  but  he 
would  have  him  look  better  after  the  souls  of  men, 
that  being  the  business  the  country  paid  him  for. 


OFF     FOR    THE     FIELD. 

The  25th  of  August  was  a  bright  and  sunny  day  ; 
from  early  morning  there  had  been  great  bustle 
and  confusion  in  camp,  and  by  ten  o'clock  we  were 
moving  into  Fourteenth  Street,  to  form  a  line  pre 
vious  to  embarking,  our  right  resting  on  Union 
Square.  The  American  companies  were  on  the 
ground  first.  The  men  were  afoot,  the  officers 
mounted.  Then  our  German  friends  joined  us,  with 
an  extraordinary  flourish  of  trumpets,  making  quiet 
people  along  the  road  stare  and  wonder.  Then  be 
gan  the  business  of  forming  a  line.  Some  wanted 
the  German  battalion  on  the  left,  others  wanted  it  in 
the  center.  The  German  battalion  was  inclined  to 
suit  itself,  and  took  position  on  the  right.  The 
melancholy  man  had  been  appointed  adjutant,  in 
consideration  of  his  disappointment.  His  boots  came 
nearly  up  to  his  waist,  his  spurs  were  of  extraordin 
ary  length,  and  the  horse  he  rode  was  remarkable 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER.  251 

for  much  bone  and  little  flesh.  He  had  brought  his 
trusty  saber  with  him,  and  thus  mounted,  he  pre 
sented  a  figure  few  could  have  contemplated  with 
serious  face.  This  business  of  forming  a  regimental 
line  was  new  to  the  adjutant,  who  was  not  a  little 
confused,  and  went  clattering  and  tilting  down  the 
line,  now  shouting  and  flourishing  his  saber,  now 
reining  in  his  horse  suddenly  and  bringing  the  poor 
animal  to  his  haunches,  now  stopping  to  inquire  of 
some  more  experienced  officer  what  he  should  do 
next.  What  one  told  him  was  right,  another  told 
him  was  wrong ;  one  cursed  him  for  not  doing  what 
another  cursed  him  for  doing,  till  at  length  the  poor 
man  became  so  confused  as  not  to  know  what  he  was 
doing,  and  his  horse,  that  had  knocked  down  a  dozen 
or  so  of  the  bystanders,  was  nearly  exhausted. 

Then  the  big  politician,  affecting  to  assist  the  dis 
comfited  adjutant,  went  dancing  over  the  ground 
with  his  horse,  now  being  up  on  the  right  of  the  line, 
now  on  the  left,  and  returning  the  salutations  of  la 
dies  who  waved  their  handkerchiefs  from  adjacent 
windows.  He  had  friends,  he  said,  in  all  those 
houses,  and  when  the  ladies  waved  their  handker 
chiefs  he  knew  they  were  friends  of  his,  and  it  would 
be  very  unkind  of  any  military  gentleman  not  to  re 
turn  their  salute. 

The  poor  adjutant  had  exhausted  his  wits  and  his 
knowledge  of  the  tactics,  and  still  there  was  disorder 
in  the  ranks.  He  could  not  get  the  regiment  into 
line  properly,  and  began  cursing  the  big  politician 
for  his  interference. 


252  THE   LIFE   OF   THE   SOLDIER. 

The  little  bugler  now  stepped  out  on  the  left,  and 
blew  numerous  shrill  blasts  on  his  horn,  by  whose 
order,  or  for  what  purpose,  not  one  of  us  knew.  This 
brought  out  the  fat  Dutch  bugler  on  the  right,  who 
returned  the  compliment  by  sounding  an  officers'  as 
sembly  call.  This  brought  the  .German  officers  gal 
loping  and  shouting  to  the  front,  where  they  joined 
the  Americans,  and  formed  opposite  the  center.  A 
flourish  of  trumpets  by  the  three  buglers,  and  the 
adjutant  turned,  saluted  the  colonel,  and  reported 
the  regiment  in  line.  The  band  then  struck  up  and 
played  a  march,  ladies  waved  their  hankerchiefs  and 
pressed  forward,  and  the  crowd  filled  up  the  space 
necessary  for  maneuvering  the  regiment. 

Then  we  had  an  oratorical  entertainment  of  rare 
quality.  A  few  kind  friends  had  bought  a  horse  for 
the  colonel,  and  it  would  not  do  to  present  him  with 
out  a  speech;  and  Richard  Busteed,  Esq.,  better 
known  as  General  Busteed,  Governor  of  Yorktown, 
etc.,  etc.,  was  called  on  to  do  us  this  high  honor. 

The  general  was  on  his  highest  horse  that  day ; 
could  build  up  a  new  kingdom,  kill  a  rebel,  fight 
a  dozen  battles,  and  win  as  many  victories,  in  one 
sentence.  Being  a  man  of  uncommon  ingenuity,  he 
spoke  at  the  horse  and  the  colonel,  then  at  the 
country  and  the  horse,  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  go't 
the  patriotism  so  confoundedly  sandwiched  in  with 
the  buncombe,  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  which 
had  the  better  part.  In  the  course  of  his  speech, 
the  speaker  alluded  to  the  gods  and  the  devils ;  to 
Mars  and  Apollo ;  to  glorious  patriots,  and  rebels 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER.        253 

with  devilish  intentions  ;  to  fields  convulsed  with  the 
slain,  and  ted  with  glory  ;  and  to  the  terrible  part 
this  regiment  would  have  to  play  in  preserving  the 
life  of  the  nation.  In  short,  according  to  the  speak 
er,  some  one  connected  with  the  regiment  was  to  do  a 
great  deal  of  fighting,  and  kill  a  great  many  of  the 
enemy  ;  but  whether  it  was  the  horse  or  the  colonel, 
was  not  quite  clear.  But  the  men  repaid  the  speech 
with  a  great  many  cheers,  and  when  he  was  done, 
the  colonel  mounted  the  horse,  and  thanking  his 
friends  for  their  valuable  present,  gave  us  a  long 
speech,  in  which  the  state  of  the  nation  was  strangely 
mixed  up  with  the  exploits  to  be  performed  by  the 
Lincoln  Cavalry. 

It  was  high  noon  when  the  colonel  ended  his 
speech  ;  and  now  the  time  for  parting  was  come. 
Husbands  kissed  their  wives,  caressed  their  children, 
as  the  parting  tear  wrote  their  heart's  tale,  and  "  God 
bless  and  protect  you  !  "  came  trembling  from  their 
lips.  Many  a  young  lover  kissed  his  sweetheart  sly 
ly,  shook  her  hand  warmly,  and  lisped  that  good-bye 
in  which  love  speaks  to  love,  and  future  hopes  and 
joys  brighten  even  in  the  hour  of  darkness. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  heart's  day  of  trial  to  many  a 
young  man  and  woman,  and  tears  were  writing  hon 
est  tales  of  love  down  their  cheeks.  There,  weep 
ing,  was  our  airy  little  June  flower,  the  gentle  breeze 
playing  with  her  golden  locks.  The  bright,  smiling 
face  that  had  so  often  shed  its  pleasing  radiance  over 
our  camp,  was  now  turned  to  take  a  last  look  at  him 
on  whom  all  the  affections  of  her  heart  were  fixed. 


254  THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

And  truly  she  had  fixed  her  heart  upon  one  worthy 
of  her,  for  he  was  a  young  man  of  handsome  figure, 
and  God  had  blessed  him  with  a  noble  nature.  And 
there  were  other  fair  friends  whose  hearts  were  with 
us  in  the  war,  and  who  had  come  to  share  with  us 
such  bounties  as  heaven  had  blessed  them  with,  and 
these  were  to  cheer  the  soldier  on  his  journey.  And 
while  their  hands  brought  us  good  cheer,  their  lips 
breathed  prayers  that  a  merciful  God  would  watch 
•ver  and  protect  us  in  the  day  of  conflict. 

Among  these  messengers  of  mercy  was  the  good 
Mrs.  Kirkland,  who  went  about  among  the  men,  dis 
tributing  havelocks,  and  other  little  things  necessary 
to  their  comfort.  Nor  must  I  forget  to  mention  the 
diminutive  little  Dutch  woman  who  had  found  the 
idol  of  her  heart  in  Bob,  the  light-horseman.  She 
had  come  to  bid  him  a  last  good-bye,  and  her  sorrow 
seemed  uncontrollable.  Indeed,  her  sorrow  had  so 
much  affected  Bob  that  he  mounted  his  horse  with  a 
tear  in  his  eye  and  a  heavy  heart. 

General  Stoneman  was  •  chief  of  cavalry  at  this 
time,  and,  annoyed  at  the  delay  that  had  been  caus 
ed,  he  sent  a  peremptory  order  to  organize  the  reg 
iment  and  get  it  into  working  shape.  This  was 
the  signal  for  as  great  an  excitement  in  our  camp  as 
if  a  shell  from  the  enemy's  battery  had  exploded  in 
it.  Captain  Frederick  Von  Shickpess,  than  whom 
the  service  had  not  a  better  officer,  was  appointed 
lieutenant-colonel ;  Ogle  was  nominated  for  major  of 
the  first  battalion,  and  Captain  Hourand  (a  German) 
for  the  second.  No  objection  was  made  to  these  ap- 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SOLDIER.  255 

pointments — indeed,  they  were  good  and  proper  ;  but, 
to  the  surprise  of  every  one,  the  name  of  the  big  pol 
itician  was  added  for  major  of  the  third.  This  was  a 
new  and  novel  way  of  making  a  major — of  raising 
over  the  heads  of  officers  of  higher  rank,  and  forcing 
upon  the  regiment,  a  man  in  every  way  unfitted  for 
the  position,  and  who  never  could  be  got  to  learn  or 
attend  to  the  duties  of  a  soldier ;  and  whose  appear 
ance  in  the  regiment,  as  experience  proved,  was  fatal 
to  good  order  and  discipline.  Against  this  outrage  a 
strong  protest  was  drawn  up  by  the  officers,  with 
Major  Ogle  at  their  head.  The  officers  gathered  into 
Ogle's  tent  to  hear  him  read  the  protest,  in  which 
the  big  politician  was  described  as  an  incubus,  a  man 
much  given  to  mischief,  much  wanting  in  common 
sense,  and  not  to  be  trusted  in  an  enemy's  country, 
•where  the  lives  of  loyal  and  brave  men  would  be 
more  exposed  by  traitors  in  our  own  ranks  than  en 
emies  in  arms  on  our  front.  Before  sending  this  to 
the  Colonel,  the  big  politician  was  invited  into  the 
tent,  and  came  smiling  and  brushing  his  hair,  as  if 
he  expected  to  be  the  recipient  of  a  compliment. 

"  Lieutenant,"  said  Ogle,  "  we  have  sent  for  you, 
on  business  not  of  the  most  agreeable  kind — " 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  replied  the  politician,  "  lam 
accustomed  to  kicks,  and  never  take  them  as  unkind 
when  I  know  a  man  's  a  particular  friend." 

"  You  have  resolved,"  continued  Ogle,  "  to  honor 
this  regiment  with  your  presence  ;  and,  believing  that 
you  are  neither  fit  for  a  soldier,  nor  an  honest  man 
— that  you  could  do  the  service  much  harm  and  no 


256  THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

good — that  this  regiment  would  be  better  without 
you — we  have  subscribed  to  this  protest."  Here  he 
read,  in  a  loud  voice  and  with  clear  emphasis,  what 
I  have  before  stated.  The  politician  shook  his  head, 
listened,  and  trembled  in  his  boots. 

"  I  'd  have  you  know  it  is  no  compliment  to  a  man," 
said  the  politician,  "  to  set  him  down  for  a  fool  ;  and 
no  one  said  I  was  not  an  honest  man  when  I  had  the 
honor  of  holding  a  position  in  the  New  York  Custom 
House—" 

"A  night  watchman,  I  suppose,"  interrupted 
Ogle. 

"  As  for  your  opposition  to  me,  this  I  can  tell 
you :  I  do  not  intend  to  stay  but  a  week  or  two  in  the 
regiment.  As  to  the  position  of  major,  it  will  only 
serve  me  until  I  am  made  a  general,  which  I  will 
soon  show  you  I  have  friends  enough  to  do,"  con 
tinued  the  big  politician,  who  hereafter  will  be  known 
as  Major  Von  Flopp. 

The  protest  was  sent,  but  it  failed  to  produce  any 
effect,  for  our  good-natured  Colonel  put  it  into  his 
pocket,  and  there  it  remained.  Then,  too,  Van 
Flopp  remained,  a  political  fact,  forced  on  the  regi 
ment  to  destroy  its  usefulness  ;  just  as  politicians  of 
more  mental  capacity  were  making  mischief,  des 
tructive  to  the  whole  army.  A  remonstrance  against 
this  strange  proceeding,  signed  by  a  large  number  of 
the  officers,  was  sent  to  Gen.  McClellan,  praying 
that  he  would  take  such  action  as  would  relieve  us 
from  the  burden  about  to  be  forced  upon  us.  The 
General  acted  promptly  in  the-  matter,  and  an  order 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE   SOLDIER.  257 

soon  came  directing  the  Colonel  to  make  an  inquiry 
into  the  matter,  and  report.  This  order  produced 
great  flattering  in  camp  for  a  day  or  so,  and  Van 
Flopp  began  to  think  his  prospects  of  being  soon 
made  a  general  of  were  at  an  end.  But  I  have 
noticed,  in  the  volunteer  service,  that  it  is  one  thing 
to  issue  an  order,  and  quite  another  to  have  it  obey 
ed.  The  inquiry  was  never  made,  and  General 
McClellan's  order,  like  the  protest,  found  a  quiet 
sleeping  place  in  the  Colonel's  pocket.  Promotions 
are  made  in  this  way. 

i 

INTO    VIRGINIA. 

We  struck  tents  on  the  morning  of  the  10th  of 
October,  and  moved  over  into  Virginia.  The  weather 
was  dump  and  the  roads  heavy,  but  the  men  were  in 
fine  spirits,  and  amused  themselves  by  cheering  each 
camp  they  passed  on  the  road,  and  singing  patriotic 
songs. 

We  had  marched  about  six  miles,  when  the  whole 
column  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  excitement  by  the 
shrill  sound  of  a  bugle  in  our  rear.  This  was  fol 
lowed  by  the  sharp  tramp  of  hoofs,  the  clashing  of 
sabers,  and  the  shouts  of  horsemen.  On  looking  in 
the  direction  the  sound  came  from,  three  horsemen 
were  seen  emerging  from  a  wood  we  had  passed  a 
few  minutes  before,  and  advancing  down  a  hill  at 
full  speed.  The  officer  in  command  of  the  rear 
guard  halted  his  men,  and  formed  across  the  road, 


258  THE  LIFE   OP  THE   SOLDIER. 

ready  to  receive  the  strangers,  and  hear  what  ac 
count  they  had  to  give  of  themselves.  That  they 
were  on  a  mission  demanding  the  quickest  execution, 
and  had  important  orders,  not  one  of  us  doubted. 
Judge  then  of  our  disappointment,  when  I  say  that, 
as  they  came  up,  their  horses  reeking  with  foam,  he 
who  rode  ahead  was  recognized  as  our  little  bugler. 
And  this  roving  fellow  was  followed  by  no  less  a 
person  than  Major  Von  Flopp,  who  in  turn  was  fol 
lowed  by  his  new  servant,  an  unsightly  negro,  who 
had  a  pair  of  long,  wabbling  legs,  was  without  hat 
or  shoes,  and  rode  a  lean,  gray  horse,  with  a  heavy, 
old-fashioned  rocking  chair  secured  behind. 

And  here  I  may  mention  that  this  venerable  chair 
was  a  piece  of  property  Major  Von  Flopp  was  trans 
porting  to  the  field,  to  carry  out  a  maxim  that  he  had 
often  asserted,  that  no  really  good  trooper  ought  to 
go  to  war  without  furniture  to  make  himself  comfort 
able.  In  truth,  the  major  had  so  much  furniture 
with  him,  that  it  was  evident  he  intended  to  make  a 
permanent  settlement  somewhere  in  the  sunny  coun 
try,  and  at  no  distant  day. 

A  few  minutes  more,  and  the  major  had  his  faith 
ful  bugler  by  his  side,  his  servant  and  the  big  chair 
mounted.  Then  there  was  a  shrill  blast ;  all  three 
were  mounted,  and  away  they  went,  alarming  all  the 
timid  people  along  the  road ;  the  little  bugler  blow 
ing  his  horn  every  few  minutes,  warning  all  way 
farers  to  make  way  for  his  master.  It  was  well  on 
in  the  evening,  tattoo  was  being  sounded,  the  coun 
tersign  had  been  given  out,  roll  had  been  called,  and 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER.  259 

no  one  had  seen  or  heard  anything  of  Major  Von 
Flopp,  whose  tent  still  lay  on  the  ground,  unpitched. 
One  and  another  began  to  inquire  for  him,  and  fears 
were  entertained  that  he  had  kept  on  into  the  ene 
my's  lines,  and  been  captured.  In  that  event,  we 
should  have  to  regret  the  loss  of  Crump,  the  little 
bugler. 

The  guard  at  the  crossing  was  interrogated,  and 
such  information  there  obtained  as  led  to  search  be 
ing  made  for  the  major  and  his  men  at  a  neighbor 
ing  farm-house.  And  there  he  was  found,  having 
engaged  comfortable  lodgings  for  himself  and  men. 
The  officers  who  went  in  search  of  him  happened  to 
look  in  at  the  window,  before  entering,  and  to  their 
great  amusement,  discovered  the  major  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  working  away  at  an  old-fashioned  churn,  as 
sisting  the  good  lady  to  make  her  butter. 

The  woman,  who  was  anything  but  prepossessing, 
and  plainly  clad,  sat  rocking  herself  in  the  major's 
big  chair,  while  the  little  bugler  was  busy  washing 
the  supper  dishes,  and  the  negro  servant  lay 
stretched  before  a  blazing  fire,  his  feet  nearly  into 
the  ashes,  and  his  head  on  a  big,  shaggy  dog. 

The  major  expressed  great  surprise  when  the 
officers  entered,  ceased  his  work  at  the  churn,  and 
made  haste  to  put  on  his  uniform. 

"What  has  brought  you  here  at  this  hour?" 
inquired  the  major,  reproachfully,  and  at  the  same 
time  wiping  the  splashes  of  cream  from  his  nether 
garments.  "  This  is  no  time  to  be  away  from  your 
regiment." 


260  THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

"  We  are  in  search  of  you,  major,"  replied  one 
of  them,  "  and  have  orders  to  bring  you  in  arrest  to 
camp." 

"  Arrest  a  superior  officer  !  "  returned  the  major. 
"  You  can't  practice  a  trick  like  that  on  me.  This 
poor  woman  is  in  great  distress.  Her  husband  is  away 
in  the  Confederate  army,  and  she  has  no  one  left  to 
protect  her — " 

"  Them  'ere  sodgers  o'  yourn,"  interrupted  the 
woman,  increasing  her  rocking,  "  give  me  a  right 
big  skaar  when  they  com'd  'ere  fust.  Done  me  a 
right  smart  heap  o'  harm  since,  tew.  Ha'n't  got  a 
pig  nor  a  sheep,  and  only  one  keow  left." 

"  There,  now,"  interposed  the  major,  "  you  hear 
the  poor  woman's  own  story.  Did'  n't  ask  you  to 
believe  me.  I  considered  it  a  soldier's  duty  to  pro 
tect  this  poor  woman.  If  the  enemy  comes  to-night 
you  will  know  where  to  find  me." 

"  He's  bin  mighty  kind  to  me,  this  'ere  gentleman 
has,"  replied  the  woman.  "  That  'ere  butter  he 
was  a  churnin'  is  the  first  I  've  made  for  more  nor 
a  month." 

Here  the  major  made  an  attempt  to  turn  the  con 
versation  by  saying  his  battalion  had  not  treated 
him  well,  and  he  thought  to  punish  it  by  making  his 
head-quarters  at  some  distance  away.  But  the 
woman  was  not  to  be  silenced  by  this  interruption. 

"  Used  to  work  at  the  millinery  business.  Arn'd 
a  right  smart  heap  of  money  at  it  afore  the  war 
broke  out — did.  Gentleman  says  he  '11  set  me  up  in 
the  business  if  I  '11  go  with  your  regiment  to  Rich- 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER.  261 

mond.  Husband's  in  the  Third  Virginny.  Would 
go  anywhar  to  see  him." 

The  officers  resolved  among  themselves  that  the 
major's  slumbers  should  not  be  very  tranquil,  and, 
indeed,  had  concocted  a  plan  to  disturb  him.  It 
was  after  midnight.  The  Grand  Army  of  the  Poto 
mac  slept  undisturbed  along  the  hills  of  Arlington, 
and  the  stillness  that  hung  over  the  broad  landscape 
was  broken  only  by  the  hoarse  voice  of  some  weary 
sentinel  demanding  the  countersign.  Suddenly  the 
shrill  notes  of  a  bugle  sounding  the  alarm  were 
heard.  The  men  responded  quickly,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  camp  was  all  astir.  Rumor  had  it 
that  the  enemy,  meditating  a  suprise,  had  advanced 
and  driven  in  our  pickets.  Major  Ogle  and  several 
other  officers  were  seen  in  a  group  near  the  head 
quarters,  their  horses  saddled  and  ready  to  mount. 
The  bugles  sounded  "  Boots  and  Saddles,"  and  the 
call  was  quickly  responded  to,  for  there  was  great 
rivalry  among  the  companies  to  see  which  should  be 
be  ready  to  mount  first.  And  when  the  line  was 
formed  and  mounted,  the  little  bugler  appeared  in 
camp,  to  inquire  for  Major  Von  Flopp  what  was  the 
matter  in  camp,  and  if  the  battalion  he  had  the 
honor  to  command  needed  his  services. 

The  little  bugler  was  sent  back  to  say  that  the 
enemy  was  rapidly  advancing  in  strong  force,  and  as 
the  fight  was  likely  to  be  a  desperate  one,  there  was 
great  need  that  Major  Von  Flopp  should  be  here  to 
command  his  battalion. 

The  major  not  making  his  appearance  within  a 


262  THE   LIFE    OP   THE   SOLDIER. 

reasonable  time,  the  regiment  wheeled  by  fours,  and 
moved  out  on  the  little  river  turnpike  about  two 
miles.  It  now  began  to  return  by  a  different  road, 
and  when  about  a  hundred  rods  from  the  little  farm 
house  where  Von  Flopp  had  taken  lodgings,  a  com 
pany  was  sent  ahead  at  a  gallop,  to  surround  and 
surprise  the  inmates.  The  heavy  tramp  of  the  horses 
made  the  ground  tremble,  and  set  all  the  curs  in  the 
neighborhood  barking.  The  officers,  having  reached 
the  house,  dismounted  and  knocked  heavily  at  the 
door. 

"  Who 's  there  ?  "  inquired  a  feminine  voice. 

"  Confederate  officers,  with  a  portion  of  the  Con 
federate  army,"  was  the  quick  reply.  "  It  has  been 
reported  that  your  house  is  a  resort  for  Yankee  offic 
ers." 

The  good  woman  opened  the  door  quickly,  and  in 
a  delirium  of  joy  thanked  heaven  that  her  hopes  had 
been  realized ;  asked  certain  questions  concerning 
her  husband,  when  they  had  left  Richmond,  and  if 
they  had  come  to  drive  the  cursed  Yankees  out  of 
Virginia,  to  all  of  which  the  officers  gave  satisfac 
tory  answers. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  good  woman,  lowering 
her  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  thar  a'n't  much  in  the  house, 
but  you  shall  hev  the  best  I  got."  Then  touching 
one  of  the  officers  on  the  arm,  she  drew  him  aside, 
saying,  "  There  's  two  on  'em  in  the  house  now,  and 
a  nigger  tew,  under  the  bed  in  t'  other  room." 

The  officer  was  quick  to  take  the  hint,  for  an  in 
vitation  to  enter  the  room  was  just  what  he  wanted. 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE   SOLDIER. 

Then  taking  the  candle  from  her  hand,  he  motioned 
his  comrades,  and  they  proceeded  cautiously  into  the 
room.  After  casting  about  for  several  minutes,  for 
it  would  not  be  polite  to  make  the  exposure  too  soon, 
a  pair  of  remarkably  long  legs  and  feet,  stockingless 
and  bootless,  were  discovered,  protruding  from  under 
a  bed  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  But  they  were 
black  and  crusty,  and  could  not  belong  to  Ma 
jor  Von  Flopp.  The  owner  of  them,  however,  was 
commanded  to  discover  himself,  which  he  did  after 
the  manner  of  a  tortoise  backing  out  of  his  hole. 
When  the  tall  figure  of  the  negro  stood  erect,  he  was 
in  a  sorry  plight.  He  was  commanded  to  give  an 
account  of  his  master. 

"  My  mas'r  ?  My  mas'r  ?  He  stowed  away  in  dar, 
boss,  in  dar,"  said  he,  in  an  agitated  voice,  and 
pointed  under  the  bed. 

They  now  began  to  draw  forth  sundry  old  blankets 
and  quilts.  Then  they  made  divers  thrusts  with 
their  swords,  and  other  demonstrations  of  doing  se 
rious  bodily  harm  to  whomsoever  was  concealed 
there.  At  length  a  voice  cried  out,  "  Heavens, 
gentlemen,  spare  my  life,  and  I  surrender  to  you,  a 
prisoner  of  war !  "  Then  the  major's  ponderous 
figure  came  rolling  out  from  under  the  bed. 

"  I  was  only  here,"  he  said,  "  to  protect  this  poor 
woman  and  her  property."  And  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  stood  amazed  at  the  appearance  of  his  captors, 
in  whom  he  recognized  not  Confederates,  but  three 
officers  of  the  first  battalion.  The  major  shook  his 
head,  and  sat  down  in  his  rocking-chair  ;  and  never 
was  man  so  disturbed  in  hi3  dignity. 


264  THE   LIFE    OP   THE    SOLDIER. 

"  You  may  think  this  all  very  fine,  gentlemen," 
said  he,  looking  askance  at  his  captors,  "  but  I  am 
no  such  fool  as  you  would  make  me  appear  before 
this  good  woman." 

"  So,  so  !  "  interrupted  the  woman  ;  "  then  they 
a'n't  our  officers.  You  Yankees  beats  all  for  bein' 
cute."  The  woman  discovered  the  serious  mistake 
she  had  committed,  and  was  inclined  to  make  amends 
for  the  doubtful  quality  of  her  loyalty. 

"  I  'in  a  gentleman,"  resumed  the  major,  "  and 
not  to  be  trifled  with  in  this  way.  There  shall  be  a 
court  of  inquiry  into  this  matter.  I  have  read  the 
regulations,  and  am  sure  there  's  nothing  in  them 
that  permits  the  dignity  of  a  field  officer  to  be  out 
raged  in  this  manner." 

Ai)  end  was  put  to  this  colloquy  by  one  of  the 
officers  threatening  that  unless  the  major  immedi 
ately  packed  up  his  traps,  and  accompanied  him  to 
camp,  force  would  be  called  in  to  compel  obedience 
to  the  order.  Search  being  made  for  the  little  bugler, 
he  was  found  among  the  branches  of  an  apple  tree 
hard  by.  And  now,  all  being  ready,  the  truant  par 
ty  were  mounted  on  their  animals  and  marched  to 
the  road,  where  the  regiment  was  halted. 

No  sooner  had  the  men  caught  sight  of  the  major's 
portly  figure  than  they  sent  up  cheers  and  groans 
without  stint,  for  they  saw  in  him  the  object  they  had 
been  sent  out  to  capture.  The  regiment  now  re 
turned  to  camp  in  the  very  best  of  temper.  And 
here  we  must  leave  the  major,  making  an  effort  to 
pitch  his  tent,  and  procure  shelter  for  the  rest  of  the 
ni'j.ht. 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER.        265 

The  ruse  served  a  good  purpose  :  it  proved  how 
quickly  the  regiment  could  turn  out  on  the  sound  of 
alarm,  and  also  in  what  spirit  the  men  were  ready 
to  face  the  enemy. 

*•  *  #  *          •   * 

The  country  around  Washington  is  remarkable 
for  the  picturesqueness  of  its  hills  and  the  beauty  of 
its  scenery.  On  one  of  the  most  prominent  of  these 
hills,  and  distinctly  seen  from  Washington,  stands 
Fairfax  Seminary,  distinguished  before  the  war  as 
one  of  the  best  conducted  institutions  of  learning  in 
Virginia.  I  doubt  if  our  country  affords  a  more 
charming  view  of  hill  and  dale,  than  that  seen  from 
the  cupola  of  this  seminary. 

When  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  lay  stretched 
along  these  hills  for  a  distance  of  twenty  miles,  with 
its  showy  paraphernalia  flashing  and  gleaming  on  the 
oak-crowned  slopes,  the  scene  it  presented  was  in 
deed  grand  and  bewitching.  The  effect  at  night  was 
beyond  description,  forming  one  of  the  most  interest 
ing  subjects  for  study  and  contemplation.  If  you 
looked  east,  you  had  the  dusky  old  city  of  Alexan 
dria,  with  its  faint,  dreamy  lights,  seeming  to  sleep 
at  your  feet,  and  the  almost  motionless  Potomac  cut 
ting  through  the  background  like  a  belt  of  silver. 
I  ascended  to  the  cupola  one  night  to  view  the  grand 
and  rare  scene,  and  shall  never  forget  the  effect  it 
had  on  my  feelings.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the 
stars  were  out  in  their  brightest,  and  not  a  cloud 
tinged  the  clear  blue  sky  ;  not  a  bugle  sounded,  nor 
a  drum  beat.  A  mysterious  stillness  hung  over  the 


266  THE   LIFE    OP  THE    SOLDIER. 

earth,  that  all  at  once  seemed  peopled  with  shadowy 
figures  just  transported  from  some  fairy  land.  Far 
away  in  the  north,  signal  rockets  were  going  up,  and 
mingling  their  bright  colors  with  the  brighter  stars. 
Then  the  answers  to  these  appeared,  rising  from  those 
dark  hills  cutting  the  horizon  in  the  direction  of 
Fairfax  Court  House  in  the  west,  and  sailed  through 
the  air  like  birds  of  exquisite  plumage.  Southwest 
and  north,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  penetrate,  the 
bright,  flitting  shadows  of  twenty  thousand  camp- 
fires  were  adding  enchantment  to  the  already  superb 
scene.  Then  a  misty  glow  spread  over  the  heavens, 
and  in  it  each  figure  of  this  vast  camp  was  reflected 
in  the  clearest  outlines.  Another  change  came. 
The  misty  glow  rolled  up  into  fleecy  clouds,  and  the 
illusion  became  so  strong  that  all  sorts  of  figures  in 
real  shape  seemed  taking  the  place  of  dancing  shad 
ows.  Again  and  again  these  gave  place  to  what 
seemed  chariots  and  steeds ;  to  long  lines  of  horse 
and  artillery,  surging  forward,  as  if  in  pursuit  of  an 
enemy.  Then  came  the  soft,  silvery  notes  of  a  bugle 
sounding  tattoo  on  the  far-off  fort.  Another  and  an 
other  bugler  followed,  the  accustomed  ear  detecting 
their  identity,  and  their  strains  sounding  louder  and 
louder,  echoing  and  re-echoing  over  the  hills  in  one 
grand  chorus. 

And  when  the  bugle  sounds  had  ceased,  the  bands 
struck  up  and  played  their  martial  airs,  with  such 
harmony  and  sweetness  as  made  the  broad  landscape 
reverberate  with  melody. 

Imagine,  reader,  if  you  can,  what  must  have  been 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER.  267 

the  effect  of  this  grand  and  exciting  night-scene,  as 
seen  when  the  earth  was  white  with  snow.  I  saw  it 
once,  and  shall  never  forget  it.  The  shadows  of 
twenty  thousand  camp-fires,  spread  for  twenty  miles 
over  a  range  of  sloping  hills,  were  flitting  and  danc 
ing  over  the  clear,  crusty  surface,  and  reflecting 
strangely  on  the  misty  heavens. 

***** 

It  was  on  the  4th  of  December,  that  a  good  deal 
of  excitement  was  caused  throughout  the  division,  by 
the  news  that  a  man  of  our  regiment  had  been  cap 
tured,  while  deserting  to  the  enemy.  The  man, 
William  H.  Johnson,  was  a  private  in  Company  D. 
He  had  been  on  picket  near  Benton's  Tavern,  and 
leaving  his  companion  under  pretense  of  watering  his 
horse  at  a  neighboring  brook,  deliberately  proceeded 
to  give  himself  up  to  the  enemy. 

Johnson  was  a  man  of  weak  intellect,  with  a  down 
cast,  but  inoffensive  countenance,  and  no  doubt  a  bad 
man.  But  the  many  stories  told  of  him  at  the  time, 
and  some  of  which  got  into  the  newspapers,  were 
nothing  less  than  the  pure  inventions  of  camp  gossips. 
Johnson's  parents  resided  in  Louisiana,  where  he  was, 
according  to  his  own  account,  born  and  raised.  Like 
many  others  of  his  class,  he  was  leading  a  sort  of 
vagabond  life  at  the  North  when  the  war  began,  and 
only  joined  the  army  because  it  afforded  him  a  quicker 
means  of  aiding  the  bad  cause  in  Avhich  his  heart  was 
engaged.  Justice  was  swift  to  overtake  him,  and 
bring  his  career  of  mischief  to  an  end. 

He  had  got  but  a  short  distance  beyond  our  outer 


268        THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

picket  line  when  he  was  met  by  a  party  of  officers, 
of  the  First  New  Jersey  Brigade,  returning  from  an 
excursion  outside  our  picket  posts.  Mistaking  them 
for  Confederates,  a  mistake  they  were  quick  to  dis 
cover  and  take  advantage  of,  he  proceeded  to  give 
them  a  minute  account  of  what  he  knew  concerning 
the  disposition  of  our  forces,  and  more  particularly 
the  strength  and  position  of  our  picket  posts,  exult 
ing  at  the  same  time  in  his  crime.  When  he  had 
sufficiently  convicted  himself  out  of  his  own  mouth, 
the  officers  discovered  to  him  who  they  were,  dis 
armed  him,  and  brought  him  back  a  prisoner,  a  man 
than  whom  none  could  have  been  more  wretched. 

Johnson  was  arraigned  before  a  court  martial,  of 
which  Colonel  N.  J.  Jackson,  Fifth  Maine  Volun 
teers,  was  president,  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to 
be  shot  to  death.  General  McClellan,  in  approving 
the  sentence  and  fixing  the  day  of  execution,  (the 
thirteenth  of  December)  concluded  his  remarks  with 
these  words:  "For  simple  desertion  the  penalty  is 
death.  For  desertion  coupled  with  such  treachery 
there  can  be  no  mercy." 

There  are  few  things  more  solemn  and  touching 
than  a  military  execution  when  properly  conducted, 
and  the  present  one,  I  venture  to  assert,  has  never 
been  excelled  for  its  force  and  impressiveness.  The 
place  of  execution  was  a  broad,  level  plain,  just 
north  of  the  seminary.  Three  o'clock  was  the  hour 
for  the  division  to  be  in  position,  but  it  was  nearly 
four  when  all  the  troops  had  taken  their  places. 
The  scene  was  then  grand  and  imposing.  Three 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE   SOLDIER.  269 

sides  of  a  square  were  formed  in  double  lines,  the 
space  between  being  twenty  paces.  General  Slo- 
cum's  brigade  formed  one  side  of  the  square,  on  the 
Leesburg  turnpike ;  General  Kearney's  at  right 
angles  and  resting  on  his  right ;  and  General  New 
ton's  formed  the  other  side,  the  center  facing  west. 
Then  the  artillery  formed  on  one  side  of  the 
square,  the  cavalry  on  the  other  ;  General  Franklin 
and  his  staff,  the  brigade  generals  and  their  staffs, 
making  a  brilliant  display,  took  position  beside  the 
place  of  execution.  Then  a  great  crowd  of  spec 
tators  came,  some  in  gay  equipages,  others  afoot,  all 
eager  to  witness  the  putting  to  death  of  this  wretched 
man.  The  young,  laughing  girl  and  the  gi'ave 
senator  mingled  with  painted  harlots  and  their 
gaudily  dressed  companions. 

The  sad  procession  approached  at  last,  and  the 
impatient  crowd  pressed  forward  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  condemned.  There  was  the  music,  and  the 
provost-marshal  and  his  aids,  the  wagon  with  the 
coffin,  the  prisoner  and  his  priest,  the  carbineers, 
with  reversed  arms,  and  the  escort.  It  began  its 
solemn  march  by  entering  between  the  lines  at  the 
right  of  the  division,  the  front  battalions  falling  to 
the  rear  as  it  approached,  and  in  that  manner  passed 
along  to  the  extreme  left,  one  band  after  another 
striking  up  and  playing  a  dirge,  with  an  effect  not 
easily  described.  Now  the  procession  halted  at  the 
place  of  execution.  The  last  faint  strains  of  music 
had  died  away.  The  prisoner  crouched  on  the  foot 
of  his  coffin,  for  he  was  overcome,  and  there  was  no 


270  THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

courage  in  his  soul.  The  priest  whispered  a  bene 
diction  and  took  a  last  farewell.  The  carbineers 
were  at  their  places,  a  strange  and  solemn  stillness 
prevailed,  the  red  setting  sun  clothed  the  scene  in 
mysterious  shadows,  mingling  with  the  gleam  of 
arms  and  giving  deeper  solemnity  to  the  picture. 

The  marshal  waved  his  handkerchief.  It  was  the 
final  signal.  There  was  a  flash,  a  crash  of  carbines, 
a  wreath  of  pale  white  smoke  cleared  away,  but  the 
wretched  man  was  not  dead.  At  least,  a  groan  had 
been  heard,  and  the  reserve  was  called  up  to  finish 
the  work  of  death. 

***** 

The  fine  weather  of  early  January  was  succeeded 
by  the  severest  storms.  To-day  it  would  be  freez 
ing  cold.  To-morrow  a  drenching  rain,  filling  the 
streams  and  overflowing  the  roads,  would  be  accom 
panied  by  hail,  sleet,  and  a  fierce,  cutting  wind. 
Then  snow  would  cover  the  ground,  and  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac  would  lie  for  weeks  buried  in  a  mud 
trench.  Mud  churned  up  everywhere,  as  only  mud 
can  churn  up  in  Virginia.  Picket  reliefs  struggled 
and  picked  their  way  over  fields  and  through  woods 
to  get  to  the  outposts ;  subsistence  wagons  stuck  in 
the  mud ;  teamsters  labored  in  mud  knee-deep,  and 
the  poor  animals  plunged  and  struggled  in  vain 
to  do  their  work.  Mud-covered  cavalrymen,  their 
jaded  animals  dripping  and  reekitig,  presented 
the  most  forlorn  appearance  as  they  dragged  and 
struggled  in  mud.  Mud  dragged  into  head-quarters, 
mud  filled  the  log  cabins  and  disfigured  the  tents  ; 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE   SOLDIER.  271 

the  whole  army  struggled  in  mud.  Artillery  could 
not  be  moved,  forage  teams  were  stuck  fast  in  the 
road,  and  our  poor  animals  suffered  and  died  for  want 
of  something  to  eat.  And  there  was  little  change 
for  the  better  until  far  into  February.  This  severe 
weather  had  also  a  very  bad  effect  on  the  men. 
Many  of  them  were  seized  with  fevers  and  other 
diseases  peculiar  to  the  climate,  and  our  hospitals, 
not  very  well  provided  at  that  time,  soon  became 
filled  with  the  sick.  A  peculiar  feature  of  this  effect 
of  the  climate  was  that  its  first  victims  were  among 
those  apparently  the  most  robust  and  strong.  Young 
men,  tenderly  brought  up,  accustomed  to  the  indulg 
ences  of  city  life,  appeared  to  preserve  their  health 
and  endure  the  hardships  of  camp  life  best. 

And  here  I  must  relate  a  curious  result  of  the 
President's  War  Order  No.  1. 

I  was  picking  my  way  from  head-quarters  to  one 
of  the  officers'  tents  one  morning,  during  a  driving 
rain,  when  I  discovered  the  figure  of  a  man,  appar 
ently  fast  in  the  mud,  for  he  remained  almost  mo 
tionless,  and  gave  no  heed  to  the  storm.  As  I 
approached  nearer,  I  discovered  him  to  be  Hugh 
McSourley.  His  back  was  to  the  storm,  his  body  a 
little  bent,  his  hands  joined  before  him,  and  his 
countenance  wore  a  downcast  and  dejected  air. 

"  Is  that  you,  McSourley  ?  "  I  inquired ;  and 
he  turned  toward  me  with  a  look  of  sorrow,  and 
shaking  his  head  replied : 

"  It  is,  an'  troth,  an'  sorry  am  I  it  is  me.  It 's 
no  good  luck  brought  me  here,  Captain." 


272  THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  your  tent,  out  of  the 
storm,"  I  continued.  His  Irish  enthusiasm  quick 
ened,  and  his  face  brightened  into  a  smile. 

"  How  'd  I  go  to  my  tint,  an'  I  ankered  here  to  the 
mud  ?  "  he  replied,  making  an  effort  to  draw  up  his 
right  foot,  when  I  discovered  the  shackle  that  se 
cured  him  to  a  ball  and  chain.  I  had  rarely  seen 
a  more  pitiable  object,  or  one  which  touched  my 
feelings  more  deeply.  Hugh  was  a  brave  man,  and 
not  a  bad  man,  except  when  his  temper  was  troubled 
with  whisky. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  so  good  a  soldier  as  you  un 
dergoing  such  severe  punishment  in  this  storm — " 

"  Faith,  it  might  be  worse,  Captain,"  he  inter 
rupted,  with  a  good-natured  smile.  "  But  won't  the 
ribils  pay  for  this,  thin !  Stay  awhile,  till  I  git  'em 
within  lingth  of  my  saber." 

McSourley  laid  all  his  troubles  at  the  door  of  the 
rebels.  No  matter  how  much  he  suffered,  he  found 
consolation  in  the  promise  that  the  rebels  would  have 
to  pay  for  it  when  he  got  within  saber  reach  of 
them.  I  confessed  my  inability  to  see  how  the  rebels 
could  have  anything  to  do  in  bringing  this  punish 
ment  upon  him. 

"  May  the  saints  forgive  me  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
raising  his  hands.  "  Would  I  be  here  only  for  the 
ribils  ?  Bad  luck  to  thim  and  the  breed  o'  thim ; 
and  may  the  divil  git  'm  afore  they  git  absolution." 
Here  he  made  a  desperate  struggle  to  move  forward, 
and  with  his  hand  extended  in  a  threatening  manner 
and  with  much  earnestness,  he  ejaculated  :  "  And 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER.        273 

wasn't  it  the  likes  of  you,  too,  that  brought  me 
here  ?  "  I  turned  to  see  what  had  caused  him  this 
sudden  agitation.  It  was  a  stalwart  negro,  passing 
a  few  paces  behind  me,  to  his  master's  tent.  I  re 
marked  that,  like  himself,  the  poor  negro  was  an 
object  of  sympathy. 

"  An'  it 's  a  mighty  lot  of  it  they  gits,"  he  replied, 
quickly.  "  If  the  ribils  had  the  naigurs,  and  the  divil 
the  pair  o'  thim,  would  n't  I  be  home,  living  in  pace 
wid  the  ould  woman?" 

I  now  endeavored  to  get  from  him  what  was  the 
immediate  cause  of  this  punishment.  Slipping  his 
fingers  into  his  vest  pocket,  he  drew  forth  a  small, 
dirty  slip  from  a  newspaper.  "  Perhaps  ye  've  read 
that  before — anyhow,  ye  can  read  it  again." 

It  was  the  President's  remarkable  War  Order  No. 
1,  and  read  thus  : 

President's  Special  War  Order,  No.  1. 

EXECUTIVE  MANSION, 
WASHINGTON,  January  31st,  1862. 
Ordered:     That  all  the  disposable  force  of  the  Army  of  the- 
Potomac,  after  providing  safely  for  the  defense  of  Washington, 
be  formed  into  an  expedition  for  the  immediate  object  of  seizing 
and  occupying  a  point  upon  the  railroad,  southeastward  of  what 
is  known  as  Manassas  Junction.     All  the  details  to  be  in  the  dis 
cretion  of  the  Commander-in-chief,  and  the  expedition  to  move 
before  or  on  the  22d  day  of  February  next. 

(Signed)  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

I  was  still  at  a  loss  to  see  what  this  had  to  do 
with  it,  and  told  him  so.  He  smiled,  apparently  at 
my  innocence,  and  putting  the  bit  of  paper  carefully 
back  in  his  pocket,  soon  gave  me  to  understand  that 

18 


274  THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

the  President  had  in  him  a  more  sincere  friend,  and 
one  ready  to  defend  his  authority  with  a  stronger 
arm,  than  many  of  those  who  fawn  about  and  flatter 
him  in  the  hope  of  securing  his  favors. 

Then,  raising  his  right  hand,  he  exclaimed,  with 
an  emphasis  and  depth  of  feeling  I  have  rarely  heard 
excelled  :  "  A  mighty  curse  upon  your  head,  Finn 
McGinnis !  " 

"  So,  then,  it  was  another  fight  between  you  and 
McGinnis,  and  whisky,  I  suppose,  had  something  to 
do  with  it,"  I  rejoined,  making  a  motion  to  leave 
him,  and  ordering  him  to  his  tent. 

"  Stay,  Captain,  stay,"  said  he  anxiously, "  an' 
I  '11  tell  ye  all  about  it.  There  was  a  mighty  dale  o' 
talk  in  camp,  as  ye  know,  about  Gineral  Miklillin 
lavin  us,  and  the  President  takin'  a  spell  at  com- 
mandin'  the  army.  There  was  thim  as  said  he  could 
do  the  same,  and  there  was  thim  as  said  that  per 
haps  he  could  n't  do  that  same.  Och !  the  whole 
camp  was  mighty  agitated — ye  know  that.  And 
there  was  Corporal  Rooney,  and  Private  Teddy 
O'Brien,  and  Mr.  McSourley,  (meself,  ye  know)  in 
the  tent  beyant,  behavin'  like  gentlemen,  when  Finn 
McGinnis  drops  in,  widout  sayin'  by  your  lave. 
'  Have  yez  heard  the  news,  boys  ?  '  says  he. 

"  '  What  news  have  ye  now  ?  '  says  I.  '  Gineral 
Miklillin  laid  on  the  shelf,  and  the  President  him 
self  to  command  the  army.  Much  luck  may  he  have 
wid  his  new  occupation  ! '  says  Finn,  radin'  the  Pres 
ident's  order  till  us,  and  spakin'  derogretory  of  the 
President  as  a  gineral.  '  Musha  !  Should  n't  I  like 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER.  275 

to  see  the  gineral  that  'd  move  an  array,  an'  it  stuck 
in  the  mud.  A  good  time  he  'd  have  wid  his  artillery 
crossing  sthrames,  an'  his  powder  wet.  Botherashin 
to  the  man  as  would  sit  in  his  aisy  chair,  an'  till  the 
army  to  move  on,  an'  it  fast  in  the  mud,'  says  Finn, 
spakin'  of  the  President  as  did  n't  become  the  likes 
of  him."  Here  Hugh  shook  his  head,  and  paused 
for  a  moment. 

"And  you  used  striking  arguments  in  defense  of 
the  President's  military  capacity,"  I  interposed, 
with  an  encouraging  nod. 

"  Faith,  I  did !  Was  n't  it  my  duty  to  stand  up 
for  the  man  as  commands  us  ?  '  Yer  a  blackguard, 
Finn,'  says  I,  '  an'  it 's  not  sayin'  much  for  ye  as  a 
sodger,  that  ye  refuse  to  obey  orders,  ony  how.' 

"  '  Could  ye  repate  that  ?  '  says  he*. 

"  '  I  could,'  says  I, '  an'  more  too,  bedad,  an'  do  ye 
mind  this,  Mister  McGinnis :  the  man  's  no  gentle 
man  what  insults  the  President  in  my  tint.  Does  n't 
yez  git  yer  rashuns,  an  does  n't  yez  git  yer  pay,  an 
does  n't  yez  git  yer  clothes  ?  An'  seein'  that,  is  n't 
it  yer  duty  as  a  sodger  to  yield  obedience  to  the  or 
ders  of  your  superiors  ?  ' 

"  '  Is  it  the  likes  o'  you,  that  comes  to  tache  me 
my  duty  ! '  says  Finn.  An'  did  n't  meself  tache  him 
better  manners  by  knockin'  him  down  ?  An'  what 
does  the  spalpeen  do  but  cry  '  Murther !  Murther  ! 
Would  ye,  Mister  McSourley,  murther  a  man  in  yer 
own  tint  ?  ' 

"  'I  would,'  says  I,  '  an'  it 's  that  same  ye  desarve 
for  yer  disrespect  to  the  President.'  An'  it 's  not 
the  half  murthered  he  was. 


276  THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

"  Thin  I  was  arristed,  and  had  'comraodashuns  in 
the  guard-house  beyant.  Thin  charges  an'  spisifica- 
tions,  an'  all  that,  an'  more  too,  an'  I  was  thried  be 
fore  a  court  martial,  fur  the  half  murtherin'  Finn 
McGinnis.  Musha,  was  n't  there  a  dale  of  lies  told  ! 
The  divil  a  word  was  I  allowed  to  say  for  meself, 
an'  I  innocent  as  the  lamb.  An'  it  's  here  I  am  pay- 
in'  the  pinalty.  Ye  have  it  all,  Captain.  Good  luck 
to  ye !  May  ye  niver  do  duty  of  this  sort.  But 
won't  the  ribils  pay  for  this,  an'  they  within  the 
rache  of  my  saber !  " 

Having  concluded  his  story  I  left  him  extricating 
the  ball  from  the  mud,  and  making  a  desperate  effort 
to  reach  his  tent. 

Sunday,  the  9th  of  March,  came  in  with  a  pale 
gray  sky,  and  a  damp,  chilly  atmosphere.  Bugles 
were  sounding,  drums  beating,  and  bands  playing, 
all  along  the  whole  line.  Mounted  orderlies  and 
staff  officers  were  galloping  to  and  fro,  from  division 
to  brigade  head-quarters,  carrying  orders.  Indeed, 
everything  indicated  a  movement  of  the  army  at 
once.  For  several  days  previous  all  sorts  of  rumors 
respecting  a  forward  movement  had  been  circulated 
in  camp,  and  a  color  of  truth  was  given  to  them 
when  the  impatient  and  brave  Kearney,  with  his 
First  New  Jersey  Brigade,  (an  honor  to  the  State 
that  sent  such  a  fine  body  of  men)  moved  out  to 
Burke's  Station.  The  army  was  provided  with  ra 
tions  for  six  days,  and  a  feeling  akin  to  joy  ran 
through  it,  at  the  prospect  of  meeting  and  trying 
strength  once  more  with  the  enemy. 


THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER.  277 

About  three  o'clock,  the  first  battalion  of  the  First 
New  York,  or  Lincoln  Cavalry,  received  orders  to 
march,  and  join  General  Kearney  at  Burke's  Station. 
Later  in  the  day,  an  order  was  issued  for  a  general 
movement  of  the  army.  The  battalion  proceeded 
over  the  little  river  turnpike,  and  joined  General 
Kearney  at  Burke's  Station  the  same  night.  On  the 
following  day,  the  10th,  they  advanced  to  Sangston's 
Station,  on  the  Orange  and  Alexandria  Railroad, 
and  were  engaged  in  protecting  a  working  party, 
which  was  building  a  bridge  and  repairing  the  road. 

There  was  a  piece  of  rising  ground  to  the  right  of 
the  station,  and  just  beyond  this,  an  open,  level  field, 
skirted  on  the  west  by  a  belt  of  thick  wood.  Early 
in  the  afternoon,  it  was  discovered  that  the  enemy 
had  an  infantry  picket  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty 
men  posted  near  a  clump  of  woods  on  the  western 
part  of  this  field.  Gen.  Kearney  at  once  ordered 
Captain  Stearns,  of  Company  H,  to  send  one  of  his 
best  and  most  reliable  officers  and  fifteen  or  twenty 
men  to  learn  their  position,  and,  if  possible,  dislodge 
them.  Lieut.  Harry  Hidder,  of  whom  I  have  before 
spoken,  was  selected  to  perform  this  service,  and 
given  only  sixteen  troopers  to  aid  him  in  carrying  out 
his  orders. 

He  was  loved  and  respected  by  all  the  regiment. 
He  was  brave  and  fearless,  full  of  the  spirit  of  com 
mand,  and  earnest  in  the  cause  of  his  country.  He 
had  won  the  respect  of  his  superior  officers  for  his 
strict  attention  to  duty,  and  his  men  loved  him  be 
cause  he  was  kind  to  them  ;  and  they  knew  him  to  be 


278  THE   LIFE   OF  THE   SOLDIER. 

devoted  to  their  interests,  and  brave.  He  had  a  fine, 
handsome  figure,  a  face  of  rare  beauty,  and  was  a 
skillful  horseman.  He  was  proud  at  being  selected 
to  perform  so  hazardous  aserviee,  and  his  dark,  flash 
ing  eyes  beamed  with  satisfaction  as  he  proceeded  to 
perform  it.  He  selected  from  his  company  sixteen 
of  the  best  and  most  reliable  men,  among  whom  were 
Hugh  McSourley,  the  man  I  left  moored  to  a  ball 
and  chain,  and  one  Corporal  Lewis,  a  brave  young 
New  Yorker. 

With  this  mere  handful  of  men,  armed  with  sabers 
and  pistols,  Bidder  moved  in  the  direction  of  the 
enemy,  General  Kearney  and  other  officers  watch 
ing  his  advance  from  a  hill  near  by.  The  enemy 
was  on  the  alert,  and  began  forming  his  line  and  ad 
vancing  as  soon  as  he  discovered  our  troopers.  In 
deed,  he  came  out  bold  and  defiant,  and  indicated  an 
intention  to  resist  the  advance.  Steadily  the  little 
band  of  troopers  advanced,  and  were. received  with 
a  few  shots.  Here  Bidder  halted,  and  formed  his 
men  for  a  charge  against  the  infantry's  steel.  They 
were  soon  ready — draw  sabers  ! — and  away  they  went 
over  the  field,  first  at  a  brisk  trot,  then,  when  the 
enemy's  fire  was  drawn,  dashed  down  upon  him  at 
full  gallop,  cutting  and  slashing  with  the  saber. 
McSourley  and  Corporal  Lewis  had  their  horses  shot 
dead ;  still  they  rushed  on,  engaging  the  enemy  in 
hand-to-hand  conflicts — Union  sabers  against  rebel 
bayonets  and  knives.  The  struggle  was  desperate 
and  bloody  while  it  lasted,  and  so  excited  Kearney's 
admiration  that  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  ap- 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE    SOLDIER.  279 

plause.  The  enemy  fought  bravely,  but  could  not 
stand  the  impetuosity  of  our  troopers,  and  began  to 
give  way  and  fall  back.  Our  men  followed  up  quick 
ly,  until  they  came  to  a  fence,  which  gave  the  enemy 
a  momentary  advantage.  Some  of  the  horses  took 
this  fence  handsomely,  and  the  troopers  proceeded 
to  keep  the  enemy  in  confusion  by  quick  and  effective 
use  of  the  saber;  others  balked. 

Hidder  was  riding  the  bugler's  horse,  an  awkward, 
unwieldly  animal,  who  balked,  and  refused  to  take 
the  fence.  In  turning  him  for  a  second  attempt,  an 
enemy's  bullet  entered  his  left  shoulder,  twisting  up 
wards  into  his  neck,  cut  the  jugular  vein,  and  the 
gallant  young  officer  fell  dead  from  his  horse,  his 
blood  watering  the  spot  where  he  lay.  The  little 
band  of  troopers  now  fought  more  desperately  than 
before,  and  soon  had  the  enemy  driven  in  confusion 
into  the  woods.  They  had  killed  several,  captured 
more  than  double  their  number  of  men,  and  two  offi 
cers.  Those  officers  were  captured  after  the  most 
desperate  resistance,  and  only  yielded  when  they 
were  prostrate  and  disarmed. 

Young  Lewis  displayed  great  coolness  and  judg 
ment  in  fighting  his  men  after  Hidder  had  fallen,  and 
bringing  them  off  tne  field,  with  their  prisoners. 
Kearney  was  fond  of  these  displays  of  courage,  and 
complimented  Lewis  on  the  spot  for  his  bravery,  as 
well  as  recommended  him  for  promotion  in  his  report. 

McSourley,  who  had  sworn  that  the  rebels  should 
pay  dearly  for  all  his  trouble,  embraced  this  as  the 
first  opportunity  to  prove  that  what  he  had  said  was 


280       THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

really  in  earnest.  lie  fought  a  good  fight ;  was  a 
brave  Irishman,  and  when  he  had  put  three  of  his 
antagonists  hors  de  combat  in  hand-to-hand  fights, 
brought  off  four  prisoners  in  triumph. 


The  foregoing  is  an  extract  taken  from  a  work  re 
cently  published  in  New  York  City,  by  Colburn 
Adams.  The  style  needs  no  commendation,  and  the 
critical  acumen  which  it  exhibits  is  very  considerable, 
especially  in  the  discussion  of  the  relative  merits  of 
the  soldier  and  the  politician.  I  thought  an  extract 
taken  from  such  a  source  might  possibly  have  a  ten 
dency  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  public  to  the  all  im 
portant  knowledge  that  the  life  of  the  soldier  in 
America,  especially  after  he  has  fought  nobly  for  his 
country,  and  come  back  to  his  home  from  the  field  of 
carnage  a  living  wreck  of  manhood,  is  not  the  most 
enviable ;  and  that  the  politician  who  in  the  midst  of 
ease  and  comfort  chalks  out  his  programmes  and  sees 
them  carried  out  to  his  own  pecuniary  advantage, 
has  an  infinitely  greater  prospect  of  happiness, 
and  may  hope  comparatively  to  live  on  an  eternal  bed 
of  roses. 

While  Congress  has  been  mindful  of  its  own,  that 
is,  the  politicians,  (who  make  up  its  constituent  parts) 
it  has  studiously  abstained  from  giving  any  aid  or 
encouragement  to  the  brave  men,  many  of  them 
helpless  from  scars  and  wounds,  who  came  to  the 
country's  rescue  in  the  hour  of  her  peril.  This  is 


THE   LIFE   OF   THE   SOLDIER.  281 

perhaps  to  be  expected  of  the  politicians  who  have  yet 
held  up  and  run  the  governmental  machinery,  but  it 
is  nevertheless  an  outrage,  and  one  which  should  not 
be  borne  much  longer.  There  should  be  a  set  of 
men  in  Congress,  not  greedy  and  grasping,  looking 
solely  with  an  eye  to  their  own  pecuniary  gains,  but 
who  should  look  beyond  all  this  and  be  influenced  in 
their  legislative  conduct  by  something  like  true  pa 
triotism.  Perhaps  those  who  tread  the  military 
walks  of  life  are  somewhat  to  blame  for  .the  strong 
grip  which  the  politicians  have  fastened  upon  the 
various  departments  of  the  government.  Were  they 
thoroughly  organized,  they  would  prove  numerically 
strong  enough  to  overcome  the  influence  of  the  pol 
iticians.  They  could  hold  the  balance  of  political 
power  at  last,  and  by  combination  attain  ends  which 
would  redound  to  their  own  interests,  and  which 
could  not  be  obtained  otherwise. 

It  is  said  that  the  peculiar  education  imparted  at 
West  Point  has  a  tendency  to  estrange  the  soldier  from 
the  dutieo  of  civil  life,  and  that  the  tastes  which  it  im 
parts  are  of  such  a  nature  as  to  repel  association  with 
the  masses  of  the  people — in  other  words,  that  it  fos 
ters  a  haughty  and  aristocratic  spirit.  Nothing  can 
be  more  untrue  ;  while  they  do  not  aspire  to  civil 
honors  and  have  a  hearty  contempt  for  demagoguery, 
they  possess  a  truer  appreciation  of  the  country's 
real  needs  than  almost  any  other  class  in  the  com 
munity.  They  are  ready  and  willing,  but  they  are 
not  chosen ;  and  they  are  not  chosen  simply  because 
the  principle  of  honor  which  has  been  deeply  in- 


282  THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SOLDIER. 

stilled  into  their  breasts  revolts  against  resorting,  in 
order  to  compass  success,  to  contemptible  acts  and 
wicked  machinations. 

Outside  of  West  Point,  too,  the  numerous  phalanx 
that  remain,  bearing  witness  to  the  fearful  struggle 
of  the  bloody  days  of  the  rebellion,  are  actuated  by 
too  high  a  sense  of  the  real  nobility  of  manhood  to 
lend  themselves  to  schemes  such  as  would  enrich  a 
Tweed  to  the  position  of  a  millionaire,  or  elevate  a 
Pomeroy  to  a  seat  in  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States. 

MRS.  R.  FRAZIER. 


$edret. 


,  S  Mr.  Cutts  in  ?  "  asked  a  gentleman,  who, 
having  knocked  at  a  door,  was  saluted  by  a 
woman  from  the  upper  window,  with  "  Well,  what's 
wantin'  naow  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he 's  in,  or  about  somewhere,  I  suppose," 
she  replied,  "  but  I  'm  Mr.  Cutts  when  any  business 
is  to  be  done ;  he  's  Mr.  Cutts  eatin'  and  drinkin', 
sleepin'  sometimes — " 

"  Well,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  I 
think  he  will  be  Mr.  Cutts  for  my  business,  too.  I 
wish  to  see  him." 

"  What  do  you  want  of  him  ?  "  asked  the  shrew, 
thrusting  her  head  still  further  out  of  the  window. 

"  To  do  something  for  me,  but  I  must  see  him  him 
self,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Is  it  raal  business  for  pay,  or  only  a  favor  you 
want  ?  I  can  let  your  horse  have  a  peck  of  oats,  or  I  can 
direct  you  to  the  shortest  road  to  the  Four  Corners, 
or  I  can —  I  can — why,  I  can  do  anything  for  you 
that  he  could,  and  a  good  deal  more ;  I  take  the 
money,  and  write  the  receipts,  and  pay  the  men,  and 


284          JOHN  CUTTS'  SECRET. 

I  take  off  the  produce.  I  am  as  good  a  judge  of  stock 
as  he  is,  and  I  can't  be  beat  on  horse  flesh." 

"  But,"  saii  the  gentleman,  drawing  down  his  face 
solemnly,  "  you  can't  take  his  place  now.  Find  him 
for  me  at  once." 

The  shrew  was  baffled.  "  Look  a  here,  mister, 
maybe  you  do  n't  know  the  circumstances  of  the 
case  ;  this  farm  is  mine  and  it  was  my  father's  afore 
me,  and  Cutts,  he  ha'n't  no  more  claim  to  it  than 
that  hen  down  there  has ;  and  besides,  I'm  seven 
years  older  than  he  is,  a  foot  higher,  and  weigh 
twenty  pounds  more ;  what's  your  business  on  my 
place,  if  I  may  make  so  bold  ?  " 

"  To  see  and  to  talk  with  your  husband,"  replied 
the  gentleman,  getting  out  of  his  chaise,  and  hitch 
ing  his  horse  to  a  post,  as  if  he  meant  to  stay  until 
he  did  see  him. 

"  Be  you  a  doctor  ?  Cause  there  a'n't  a  living  thing 
the  matter  with  Cutts.  He  's  the  wellest  man  in 
the  town,  and  so  am  I,"  said  the  woman. 

"  No,  my  good  woman,  I  'm  not  a  doctor.  Do  you 
think  your  husband  will  be  in  soon?  Send  that  boy 
to  find  him,"  said  the  stranger. 

The  boy  looked  up  to  his  mother's  face,  but  he 
knew  his  own  interests  too  well  to  start  without  or 
ders. 

"  Then  you  're  a  minister,  I  suppose,  by  your  black 
clothes.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  and  save  you  time, 
that  we  don't  go  to  meeting,  and  don't  want  to.  It 
a'n't  no  use  for  you  to  leave  your  tracts,  for  I  've 
got  a  big  dairy,  and  ha'n't  no  time  to  idle  away 


JOHN  CUTTS'  SECRET.  285 

readin'  ;  and  I  keep  him  about  so  early  and  late, 
that  when  he  's  done  work  he's  glad  to  go  to  bed 
and  rest." 

"  I  'm  no  minister,  madam  ;  I  wish  I  Avere,  though, 
for  your  sake,"  said  the  gentleman  ;  "  send  for  your 
husband.  I  cannot  wait  much  longer.  I  must  see 
him  at  once." 

The  boy  started  to  his  feet  again,  and  looked  in 
his  mother's  eye,  but  it  gave  no  marching  orders. 

"  Look  here,  mister,"  now  appearing  at  the  door, 
and  looking  defiantly  at  him,  "  you  're  a  schoolmas 
ter,  huntin'  up  a  district  school,  and  you  think  he  's 
a  committee  man  ;  but  he  a'n't  this  year." 

"  Ma'am  Cutts,"  as  the  neighbors  called  her, 
dropped  her  hands  at  her  side,  and  heaved  a  groan. 
She  had  found  a  man  she  could  not  manage. 

"  See  here  now,  mister,"  she  said,  "  I  can  read  a 
body  right  through,  and  I  knew  what  you  was  the 
blessed  minute  I  clapped  my  eyes  on  you.  I  can 
tell  by  your  everlastin'  arguin'  that  you  are  a  law 
yer.  We  ha'n't  got  no  quarrels ;  don't  want  no  deeds 
drawed,  or  wills  made ;  so  if  you  're  huntin'  for  a 
job  of  my  husband,  you  may  as  well  onhitch  your 
hoss,  and  drive  on.  We  know  enough  to  make  a 
little  money,  and  I  know  enough  to  hold  on  to  it." 

"  M}'  good  woman,  you  entirely  misunderstand 
my  errand.  I  can  tell  no  one  but  himself  what  it  is, 
and  must  tell  him  in  confidence,  alone.  If  he  chooses, 
he  may  break  it  to  you  the  best  way  he  can." 

"  Oh,  my  goodness  !  Sakes  alive  !  Brother  Lip  's 
blowed  up  in  the  Mississippi  boat,  I  bet.  Oh,  la  me, 


286  JOHN  CUTTS'  SECRET. 

the  poor  fellow  !  He  left  a  little  something,  did  n't 
he?" 

"  I  never  heard  of  him ;  and  nobody  's  blowed  up 
that  I  know  of,"  replied  the  gentleman. 

"  I — now  I  know  !  You  're  the  man  what  wants 
to  go  to  Congress,  and  have  come  here  huntin'  after 
votes.  He  shall  not  vote  for  you.  I  hate  politicians, 
especially  them  that  goes  agin  women,  and  thinks 
they  was  made  to  drudge,  and  nothin'  else.  I  go 
in  for  free  and  equal  rights  for  white  folks — men  and 
women — for  Scripture  says  there  is  n't  men  or  women, 
but  all 's  one  in  politics.  I  believe  the  day  is  com 
ing  when  such  as  you  and  me  will  have  to  bow  the 
knee  to  women,  afore  you  can  get  the  big  places  and 
high  pay  that 's  eatin'  us  up  with  taxes.  You  can't 
see  my  husband !  We  are  going  to  the  polls  on  the 
way  to  the  mill,  and  I  '11  promise  you  that  he  votes 
right." 

"  I  'm  no  candidate,  and  I  don't  know  what  you 
are  talking  about.  Ah  !  there  comes  the  man  I 
want."  And  the  stranger  went  toward  Mr.  Cutts, 
who  had  just  leaped  a  pair  of  bars  which  led  from 
the  potato  patch  into  the  lane. 

Mrs.  Cutts  flew  into  the  house  for  her  sunbonnet, 
to  follow  them ;  but  by  the  time  she  got  to  the  bars, 
her  mysterious  visitor  and  Cutts  were  driving  rapid 
ly  down  the  road.  The  strong-minded  woman  shouted 
after  her  husband,  "  You  'd  better  come  back,  I  tell 
you,"  but  the  wind  was  the  wrong  way,  and  carried 
her  words  into  the  potato  patch. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  gentleman  to  honest  Cutts,  "  I 


JOHN  CUTTS'  SECRET.          287 

have  a  very  simple  question  to  ask  you,  but  I  shall 
have  to  ask  you  in  confidence.  I  will  give  you  five 
dollars  if  you  will  promise  not  to  repeat  my  words 
until  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  Cutts,  "  I  should  n't  like  to 
answer  any  questions  that  would  make  trouble  among 
my  neighbors.  I  have  my  hands  full  to  keep  out 
of  scrapes  now,  but  I  've  done  it,  an'  ha'n't  an  en 
emy  in  the  world  as  I  know." 

"  But,  sir,  you  need  n't  reply  to  my  question  unless 
you  are  perfectly  willing,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Ask  your  question,  and  I  will  not  repeat  it." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Cutts,  I  am  laying  fence  on  the 
Brisley  place,  which  I  have  just  bought,  and  I  was 
directed  to  inquire  of  you  where  I  can  buy  cedar 
posts.  A  fellow  in  the  store  said,  '  Cutts  can  tell 
you,  if  his  wife  will  let  him.  But  she  won't ;  she  '11 
insist  on  telling  you  herself,  and  perhaps  offer  to 
drive  you  wherever  you  go  to  order  them.' 

"  I  told  them  I  would  see  you,  and  ask  you  only, 
and  the  fellows  bet  on  it.  They  are  to  give  you  ten 
dollars,  and  two  or  three  widows  in  town  a  cord  of 
wood  each,  if  I  succeed  in  asking  you  this  question 
alone,  and  making  sure  your  wife  does  not  know  my 
business  until  after  breakfast  to-morrow  morning." 

Cutts  knew  his  wife's  standing  too  well  to  feel 
very  sensitive,  and  taking  the  bill  from  the  stranger, 
he  smiled  and  said : 

"  I'll  go   with  you  to  look  out  cedar  posts,  and 
keep  dark,  for  the  joke's  sake;  but  I  don't  know, 
whether  she'll  let  me  stay  in  the  house  to-night.     I 
do  n't  own  it,"  replied  the  good-natured  Cutts. 


288  JOHN    CDTTS'    SECRET. 

"  Suppose  you  go  to  the  place  and  see  to  setting 
the  posts.  I  will  send  a  boy  to  tell  her  you  had  to 
go  off  suddenly  on  a  little  business,  and  will  be  back 
in  the  morning,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  I  '11  do  that,"  replied  Cutts,  "  for  I  never  quar 
rel  with  her,  but  let  her  have  her  own  way.  I  do  n't 
want  to  worry  myself  about  trifles." 

"  Good  man,"  said  the  stranger,  "  there  are  no 
trifles  in  this  life.  The  smallest  act  is  important, 
and  that  easy  good  nature  of  yours  will  ruin  your 
family.  Baffle  that  spirit  to-day,  and  next  Sunday 
take  your  boys  and  go  to  the  house  of  God,  what 
ever  she  says,  and  be  a  real  man — at  the  head  of 
your  own  house  and  family." 

"  It's  rather  late  to  begin,"  said  Cutts,  shaking 
his  head  in  a  way  that  would  have  warned  others 
from  the  trap  in  which  his  feet  were  fast.  "  You 
see,  the  purse  is  hers,"  he  added,  "and  that  has 
been  a  crueler  fetter  than  her  will  to  me.  But  I 
will  try  to  begin  anew,  for  her  good  will  and  the 
children's." 

The  boy  was  sent  with  the  message,  but  the  boy 
wasn't  sharp  enough.  Madame  Cutts  discovered 
the  whereabouts  of  her  lord,  and  tackled  up  and 
went  after  him. 

All  the  way  home,  and  far  into  the  night,  she 
used  her  eloquence,  both  in  pleadings  and  threaten- 
ings,  to  find  out  the  mysterious  errand  of  that  hate 
ful  city  nabob,  that  had  come  into  the  country  to 
separate  happy  families. 

But  Cutts  yielded  himself  to  a  dumb  spirit  for  the 


JOHN  CUTTS'  SECRET.          289 

night,  and  no  measure  could  induce  him  to  talk  on 
any  subject,  lest  she  should  pry  the  mighty  secret 
out  of  him.  About  midnight  she  wore  herself  out 
and  went  to  sleep,  but  at  break  of  day  she  began. 
He  then  ventured  to  say :  "  As  soon  as  breakfast  is 
over  I  will  break  the  news  to  you." 

"  You'll  never  eat  a  morsel  in  my  house,  I  can  tell 
you,"  cried  Xantippe,  "  till  you  have  told  me  what 
the  man  wanted  of  you." 

"  Then  you  '11  wait  a  long  time  to  hear  it,"  said 
Cutts,  "  for  I  have  vowed  I  'd  never  tell  it  till  I  had 
first  eaten  my  breakfast,"  and  with  these  words  he 
went  out. 

Ma'am  Cutts  endured  the  torture  as  long  as  pos 
sible,  and  then  got  breakfast.  She  called  at  the 
door,  to  no  one  in  particular,  "  Come." 

But  Cutts  did  n't  come.  After  a  while  she  went 
out  to  the  barn,  and  found  him  seated  on  an  up 
turned  half-bushel  measure,  calmly  peeling  and  eafc- 
ing  a  raw  turnip. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  this  here  man  had  possessed 
you!  Your  breakfast  is  coolin'.  Do  come  in." 

It  was  a  point  gained. 

Cutts  went  in,  as  requested,  and  ate  his  breakfast. 
When  that  was  over,  Ma'am  settled  herself  back  in 
her  chair,  with  her  face  full  of  expectation,  and 
said : 

"  Now,  begin.     What  did  that  man  want  ?  " 

"  He  wanted  some  cedar  posts,"  replied  Cutts, 
calmly,  "  and  that  was  all." 

19 


290          JOHN  CUTTS'  SECRET. 

If  an  arrow  had  struck  Madame  Cutts,  she  could 
not  manifested  more  surprise  and  shame. 

"  I  am  the  laughing  stock  of  this  town,"  added 
Cutts,  "  and  from  this  hour  I.  turn  over  a  new  leaf. 
I  am  henceforth  head  of  my  family,  and  unless  this 
house  is  made  mine  I  shall  finish  off  a  room  in  the 
barn — which  is  mine — and  you  will  be  welcome 
to  share  it  with  me.  If  not,  I  will  live  there  with 
the  boys,  and  you  will  find  a  civil  neighbor." 

Madame  Cutts'  .power  was  broken.  Since  then 
the  farm  has  been  called  John  Cutts'  place,  and  he 
is  the  head  of  the  house. 


OF 


[ ORIGINAL. ] 

a  certain  street  in  our  good  city  there  is  a  row 
of  stately  edifices,  whose  plate  glass  windows 
and  marble  steps  bespeak  them  to  be  the  abodes  of 
fashion  and  opulence.  Opposite  this  lordly  row  is  a 
heterogeneous  mixture  of  good,  bad,  and  indifferent. 
In  one  of  the  most  humble  of  these,  an  upper  apart 
ment  was  occupied  by  a  being  whose  life  might  well 
be  a  lesson  to  the  more  exalted  in  station.  Meek, 
lowly,  and  resigned,  this  aged  female,  after  a  life  of 
unshrinking  duty,  patiently  awaited  a  call  to  another 
existence,  where  her  virtues  will  give  her  a  rank  far 
above  many  who  contemned  her  in  this  world.  Mrs. 
Williams  had  passed  the  greater  part  of  her  life  in 
the  service  of  one  of  the  most  respectable  families  of 
this  city.  She  had  seen  several  generations  pass 
away  of  those  whom  she  had  served  most  faithfully, 
and  now  but  one  descendant  of  that  family  remained 
to  cheer  and  maintain  her  in  her  old  age.  Well 
did  he  perform  this  duty.  In  the  flower  of  life,  when 


292  THE   RICH   UNCLE. 

youth  can  feel  no  sympathy  with  age,  Clement  Os- 
born  would  often  pass  an  hour  conversing  with  his 
old  nurse — with  her  who  had  received  the  last  sigh  of 
his  mother,  had  nursed  his  infancy,  and  taught  him 
his  first  rudiments  of  learning.  To  gaze  on  his  fine 
countenance,  glowing  with  youth  and  intelligence,  to 
trace  the  likeness  of  his  mother  and  his  grandfather, 
was  one  of  the  few  pleasures  left  to  her  helpless  old 
age. 

"  I  cannot  imagine,  my  good  nurse,"  said  Clement 
to  her  one  day,  during  his  usual  visit,  "  how  you  can 
always  be  so  cheerful  and  contented,  confined  as  you 
are  to  one  seat.  How  can  you  contrive  to  pass  away 
the  weary  hours,  for  even  with  me,  who  have  so  great 
a  variety  of  pursuits,  time  sometimes  lags  heavily, 
and  I  long  for  something  new  ?  " 

"  You  will  feel  differently,  my  son."  she  answered, 
"  when  at  my  age.  After  a  life  of  toil  and  trials,  rest 
alone  is  welcome  to  the  aged ;  quiet  and  repose  is 
necessary  for  the  spirit  to  prepare  us  for  that  final 
change,  which  will  soon  arrive.  I  have  still,  however, 
my  amusements  and  occupations ;  I  read,  I  knit,  I 
chat  with  a  friend,  and  a  visit  from  you  serves  me 
for  a  whole  day  ;  when  everything  else  fails,  I  resort 
to  an  old  maid's  privilege,  and  amuse  myself  watch 
ing  my  neighbors." 

"  Watching  your  neighbors ! "  said  Clement, 
"  what  can  you  discover  through  those  linen  shades, 
which  screen  every  window  from  prying  curiosity,  to 
amuse  you  ?  " 

"  Those  linen  shades  are  sometimes  drawn  up,"  . 


THE   RICH    UNCLE.  293 

said  Mrs.  Williams  ;  "  the  inhabitants  sometimes  go 
out  and  come  in — and  I  study  their  characters  from 
what  I  perceive.  In  that  house  with  the  balconies 
resides  a  fashionable  mother  with  two  beautiful 
daughters,  whose  characters  are  very  dissimilar. 
One  of  the  young  ladies  is  artificial  and  selfish — the 
other,  all  truth  and  nature." 

"  You  must  have  slight  grounds  to  judge  from," 
said  Clement ;  "  you  draw  upon  your  imagination, 
probably,  to  fill  up  the  outline." 

"  Trifles  sometimes  express  a  great  deal,"  she 
continued  ;  "  I  have  observed  one — Miss  Parker,  for 
that  is  the  name — who  never  appears,  except  when 
attired,  from  the  turn  of  her  hair  to  her  shoe-tie,  in 
the  highest  fashion  ;  and  then  only  when  some  stylish 
visitor  arrives  whom  she  delights  to  honor.  To  them 
she  is  all  grace  and  smiles ;  but  her  attitudes  are 
studied,  and  she  occasionally  throws  a  glance  around 
to  discover  what  impression  she  is  making ;  whilst  the 
other,  with  unaffected  grace  and  natural  manners, 
is  often  seen  ushering  to  the  very  door  some  plain, 
unpretending  personage,  who  looks  as  if  she  might 
be  a  country  cousin,  or  some  aged  relation.  I  have 
often  seen  her  nurse  and  fondle  the  little  ones,  with 
such  untiring  affection  that  I  am  sure  she  must  have 
a  good  heart." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Clement,  "  that  you  can  find 
amusement  so  easily.  I  have  often  heard  of  the 
beautiful  Misses  Parker  from  their  many  admirers  ; 
but  they  are  both  equally  favorites  in  society,  I 
believe.  I  go  out  so  little  that  I  know  very  few  of 


294  THE    RICH    UNCLE. 

the  present  race  of  belles — there  is  a  new  set  every 
season.  I  must  now  leave  you,"  said  he,  rising  to 
depart.  "  My  engagements  are  numerous  to-day. 
Hoping  the  Parker  family  will  act  up  for  your  amuse 
ment,  I  bid  you  good  morning." 

Clement  left  the  humble  abode  of  his  old  nurse, 
animated  by  the  consciousness  of  having  performed 
a  duty,  and  cheered  by  the  warm  affection  of  one 
who  loved  him  so  entirely.  He  possessed  a  heart 
rich  in  all  the  better  feelings  of  human  nature,  but 
he  found  few,  very  few,  to  appreciate  its  treasures — 
his  position  was  lonely,  and  he  often  felt  desolate. 
It  is  true  he  had  a  father,  but  he  saw  very  little  of 
him,  and  had  never  resided  with  him.  The  father  of 
Clement,  though  good-hearted  and  upright,  was  of  a 
roving,  speculating  sort  of  disposition.  Full  of 
visions  and  schemes,  he  was  ever  roving  from  place  to 
place,  lured  by  hope,  in  the  pursuit  of  fortune,  which 
still  evaded  his  grasp.  Sometimes  his  plans  suc 
ceeded,  but  he  was  one  of  those  who  never  could 
reap  the  harvest,  even  after  he  had  sown  the  seed. 
Clement  resided  with  a  bachelor  uncle,  a  brother  of 
his  father,  who  had  given  him  a  home  when  quite 
young.  The  uncle  was  ever  immersed  in  business — 
to  accumulate  thousands  upon  thousands,  until  he 
could  count  millions,  was  the  first  grand  object  of 
his  life ;  his  heart  seemed  to  be  in  his  counting- 
house,  and  if  he  had  any  of  the  softer  feelings  of 
humanity  he  seldom  displayed  them.  He  was  rather 
eccentric  in  some  of  his  sentiments,  and  had  always 
given  Clement  to  understand  he  thought  the  worst 


THE    RICH    UNCLE.  295 

thing  that  could  happen  to  a  young  man  was  to  be 
born  to  a  fortune.  Clement  must,  therefore,  make 
his  own  way,  as  all  the  immense  property  would 
probably  be  given  to  different  institutions.  His  uncle 
thought,  as  many  do,  to  compensate  for  a  life  of 
worldliness  by  deeds  which  should  live  after  him. 
When  he  gave  Clement  a  home  in  his  richly  fur 
nished  mansion,  where  no  expense  was  spared,  he 
thought  he  had  done  everything  necessary  for  his 
happiness  ;  while  Clement  felt  that  he  would  willingly 
exchange  the  cold  stateliness  of  his  splendid  abode 
for  a  home  endeared  by  affection  or  enlivened  by 
female  influence.  Clement  had  devoted  himself 
assiduously  to  his  profession,  and  his  hopes  were  fair 
of  rising  to  eminence.  He  had  not  mixed  much  in 
society  of  late,  though  ever  welcomed  as  a  favorite 
when  he  did  apppear.  He  was  once  prevailed  upon 
to  accept  an  invitation  to  a  party  given  by  a  lady, 
who  had  sent  her  son  to  procure  some  beaux  for  her 
belles,  whose  appearance  would  not  disgrace  her 
rooms.  Clement  arrived  when  the  rattling  throng 
of  carriages  were  hastily  depositing  their  inmates, 
and  the  crowd  began  to  thicken  in  the  brilliantly 
lighted  apartments.  The  scene  was  gay,  the  music 
enlivening — fairy  forms  flitted  by,  and  he  felt  as  if  in 
the  temple  of  pleasure.  He  observed  one  bright 
being,  whose  commanding  style  of  beauty,  as  she 
stood  in  a  conspicuous  position,  attracted  his  admira 
tion.  She  was  dressed  with  much  taste  and  haut 
ton,  and  was  conversing  fluently  with  a  bewhiskered, 
foreign-looking  gentlemen.  Just  then  his  friend 


296  THE    RICH    UNCLE. 

returned,  and  insisted  on  introducing  him  to  the  lady 
who  had  attracted  his  attention.  He  took  advan 
tage  of  a  pause  in  her  conversation  and  presented 
Clement  to  Miss  Parker.  Clement  thought  of  his 
old  nurse,  and  wondered  if  this  was  her  favorite. 
The  lady,  however,  merely  bowed  coldly,  and  contin 
ued  to  be  absorbed  by  her  bewhiskered  and  mustached 
German  baron.  Clement  immediately  determined 
that  the  lady  had  no  taste,  whatever  other  qualifica 
tions  she  might  have.  Mrs.  Parker  happened  to  be 
not  far  from  them.  Her  watchful  eye  observed  her 
daughter.  She  glided  behind  them. 

"  Adelaide,  my  love,"  said  she,  "  your  ruff  is  turn 
ed  down,"  and  whilst  she  adjusted  her  dress  she 
whispered,  "  you  are  wasting  your  time  on  an  un 
known  adventurer,  while  that  was  rich  old  Osborn's 
nephew  and  heir  that  was  just  introduced  to  you." 

A  hint  was  enough  for  Adelaide  ;  she  immediately 
turned  with  a  smile  to  Clement,  and  commenced  a 
gay  conversation.  He  was  enchanted  by  the  fair 
lady's  beauty,  wit,  and  finished  manners.  She  was, 
however,  engaged  to  dance,  and  obliged  to  fulfill  the 
claim  of  some  equally  eligible  admirer.  Mrs.  Parker, 
however,  did  not  lose  sight  of  Clement,  and  soon  way 
laid  him.  She  addressed  him  as  an  old  acquaintance  ; 
she  remembered  him  as  a  boy,  she  said,  and  knew  his 
mother — all  his  kith  and  kin,  in  fact.  She  had  nu 
merous  questions  to  ask  about  his  father  and  uncle, 
whom  she  declared  were  formerly  her  best  friends. 
Her  friendship  and  sociability  quite  charmed  Clem 
ent  ;  he  offered  her  his  arm,  which  she  thankfully  ac- 


THE    RICH    UNCLE.  297 

cepted,  to  go  in  pursuit  of  her  youngest  daughter, 
whom  she  said  she  had  missed  for  some  time.  They 
with  difficulty  passed  through  the  gay  throng  to 
another  apartment,  where  they  discovered  a  bevy  of 
fair  wall-flowers  in  one  corner,  who  seemed  by  their 
joyous  faces  and  light  laughter,  to  be  in  the  full  career 
of  enjoyment. 

Mrs.  Parker  pressed  on  into  the  midst  of  the  fair 
group,  and  addressing  one  of  the  loveliest  as  her 
daughter  Julia,  led  her  forth. 

"How  can  you,  Julia,"  whispered  she,  "plant 
yourself  here,  when  you  ought  to  be  dancing  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  pleasure  dancing  in  such  a  crowd," 
she  answered,  "  and  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen 
Sophy  and  Anna — we  had  so  much  to  say." 

"  Silly  girl !"  said  Mrs.  Parker,  "  you  ought  to 
stand  up  if  you  can't  dance,  or  every  one  will  sup 
pose  you  are  a  wall-flower  from  necessity." 

Mrs.  Parker  then  led  her  daughter  away  from  her 
youthful  friends,  and  Clement  soon  prevailed  on  her 
to  join  a  set  which  was  just  forming.  Clement  never 
tired  of  gazing  on  the  frank  and  sunny  face  of 
his  companion,  bright  with  youth,  beauty,  and  a  joy 
ous  spirit.  Her  unaffected  manner,  and  the  unstud 
ied  grace  in  all  her  movements,  soon  convinced  him 
that  however  hastily  Nurse  Williams  might  have 
judged  the  sister,  she  had  been  correct  in  her  opinion 
of  the  lovely  Julia. 

The  evening  passed  rapidly  to  Clement,  and  he 
became  more  and  more  fascinated  by  his  fair  partner. 
He  scarcely  left  her  side,  was  so  happy  as  to  obtain 


298  THE   RICH   UNCLE. 

a  station  near  her  at  the  supper  table,  and  safely 
deposited  her  in  their  carriage  before  he  left  her.  He 
went  homeward  full  of  thoughts  of  the  fair  Julia. 
Her  bright  and  radiant  countenance  shone  upon  him 
in  his  dreams,  with  her  sunny  smile.  His  visits  to 
his  old  nurse  now  seemed  doubly  interesting,  for  he 
could  gaze  on  the  residence  of  the  fairy-like  being 
who  possessed  his  fancy  ;  and  when  he  occasionally 
caught  a  glimpse  as  she  quickly  glided  down  the 
marble  steps  to  the  carriage,  or  for  a  moment  appear 
ed  at  the  window,  he  felt  as  if  a  gleam  of  sunshine  had 
shone  upon  his  pathway.  But  he  had  not  to  content 
himself  with  such  shadowy  enjoyments  ;  he  often  met 
the  Misses  Parker  in  company,  and  was  soon  honored 
by  an  invitation  to  their  house. 

The  more  he  saw  of  Julia,  the  more  worthy  of  his 
admiration  she  appeared.  She  became  every  day 
more  interesting  to  him,  and  he  more  devoted  to  her. 
Frank  and  open  in  his  character,  his  interest  in  her 
was  no  secret  to  any  who  chose  to  observe  him.  He 
became  a  prodigious  favorite  with  all  the  family  of 
Parkers.  They  gave  him  every  encouragement  to 
his  passion,  and  he  soon  found  himself  completely  at 
home  there.  By  the  fluttered  manner,  the  sudden 
blush  which  overspread  the  tell-tale  face  of  Julia,  he 
could  read  that  he  was  anything  but  indifferent  to 
her.  The  most  delightful  visions  and  blissful  pros 
pects  were  his  as  he  floated  on  so  prosperously  in 
his  wooing.  He  only  awaited  the  arrival  of  his  father, 
who  was  daily  expected,  to  declare  himself  in  form 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker,  while  he  found  a  thousand 


THE    RICH    UNCLE.  299 

ways  to  declare  to  Julia  his  hopes  and  wishes.  An 
unfinished  sentence,  a  meaning  glance,  an  unobserved 
pressure  of  the  hand,  are  sufficient  to  lovers  to  com 
municate  volumes. 

The  father  of  Clement  arrived  at  length,  and  his 
son  lost  no  time  in  communicating  to  him  the  state 
of  his  affairs. 

"  What !  Julia  Parker,"  said  his  father,  "  the 
daughter  of  Tom  Parker  ?  I  know  the  family  ; 
used  to  be  rather  intimate  once,  but  did  not  like  him 
afterwards.  He  married  Adelaide  Stanley — never 
liked  her — a  proud,  cold-hearted  girl — very  hand 
some,  though.  Well,  well,  the  daughter  may  not  be 
like  the  mother." 

The  father,  according  to  the  son's  request,  de 
parted  to  inform  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker  of  Clement's 
hopes,  plans  and  wishes,  whilst  Clement  remained  in 
a  feverish  state  of  excitement  during  this  momentous 
affair. 

"  Now,  now,"  said  he,  whilst  his  heart  beat  rapidly, 
"  my  fate  will  be  decided  !  But  why  should  I  fear  ? 
Everything  promises  me  success.  Julia,  dear  girl, 
I  cannot  doubt  her  parents  have  given  me  every  en 
couragement.  She  surely  will  be  mine.  What  a 
blessed  home  will  ours  be,  with  her  as  the  ministering 
spirit.  She  knows  my  circumstances,  and  her  senti 
ments  are  like  mine — where  true  affection  exists, 
riches  are  not  necessary  to  happiness.  My  profession 
will  give  us  the  comforts  of  life.  We  can  live  for 
each  other,  and  a  few  tried  friends.  The  gay,  the 
heartless,  fashionable  throng,  who  court  the  wealthy. 


300  THE   RICH   UNCLE. 

will  be  excluded  from  our  quiet  home  without  a  re 
gret,  while  domestic  happiness,  a  heaven  on  earth  of 
which  they  can  form  no  idea,  will  be  ours." 

Clement  impatiently  awaited  his  father's  return 
to  bid  him  hasten  to  his  Julia,  and  hear  from  her  the 
certainty  of  his  happiness.  His  heart  fluttered  at 
every  sound,  until  Mr.  Osborn  at  length  made  his 
appearance. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Osborn,  throwing  him 
self  into  a  seat,  "  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  it  is  all 
over  with  you  there." 

"  What  do  you  mean  sir  ?  "  said  Clement. 

"  I  mean,"  he  answered,  "you  can't  have  your 
Julia." 

"  What  can  you  mean?  "  said  Clement,  starting 
up,  while  his  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  his  father,  "  while  I 
tell  you  all  about  it.  I  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker 
at  home  ;  they  received  me  very  graciously  ;  talked 
about  old  times,  etc.  I  soon  made  known  to  them 
your  attachment  to  their  daughter  Julia — they  re 
ceived  the  intelligence  most  favorably,  declared  you 
were  a  prodigious  favorite — the  finest  young  man 
they  had  ever  known ;  and  to  no  one  would  they 
sooner  commit  the  happiness  of  their  dearest  darling. 
Well,  I  went  on  to  explain  your  worldly  expecta 
tions.  I  told  them  I  should  have  little  or  nothing 
to  give ;  that  your  profession  you  considered  suffic 
ient  for  the  comforts  of  life  at  present,  and  hoped 
from  year  to  year  to  extend  your  practice ;  your 
prospects  were  favorable. 


THE    RICH   UNCLE.  301 

" '  But,'  said  Mrs.  Parker,  '  his  uncle  will  do 
something  handsome,  I  suppose,  on  the  marriage  of 
his  heir.' 

"  '  Brother  George,'  said  I,  '  is  as  little  likely  to 
make  my  son  his  heir  as  to  leave  all  his  great  wealth 
to  his  black  coachman.  He  is  an  oddity,  and  has 
ever  given  Clement  and  myself  to  understand  he 
must  expect  nothing  from  him.  He  might  marry 
himself — stranger  things  have  happened — he  is  only 
fifty-five.  At  all  events,  he  will  probably  outlive  us 
all.' 

"  They  looked  very  blank,  and  exchanged  glances' 
full  of  meaning  which  seemed  to  say,  We  have  played 
a  wrong  card,  and  must  retrieve  it  as  soon  as  possi 
ble.  They  then  began  in  a  roundabout  way  to  ex 
press  their  sorrow  and  concern  ;  their  esteem  for  you ; 
but  they  were  under  a  great  mistake.  They  sup 
posed  Mr.  Clement  Osborn  was  the  declared  heir  of 
Mr.  George  Osborn,  and  they  expected,  of  course,  a 
handsome  settlement  on  the  marriage  of  his  only 
nephew.  As  for  their  daughter  living  on  fifteen 
hundred  or  two  thousand  a  year,  the  idea  was  absurd 
— none  but  a  romantic  young  man  could  ever  have 
entertained  such  a  thought.  It  would  hardly  be 
enough  for  a  decent  wardrobe.  They  were  astonished 
that  a  person  of  Mr.  Clement  Osborn's  good  sense 
could  ever  have  supposed  such  a  thing.  They  could 
not,  consistently  with  their  duties  as  parents,  allow 
such  a  lovely  young  creature,  fitted  to  adorn  a  high 
station,  to  consign  her  youth  and  charms  to  the  cares 
of  household  drudgery.  So,  as  I  did  not  know  very 


302  THE    RICH   UNCLE. 

well  what  else  to  say,  I  left  the  confounded  proud 
pack,  thinking  you  were  well  rid  of  them.  I  know 
it  will  come  hard  at  first  to  give  her  up — but  try  my 
son,  to  bear  it  well." 

Alas,  poor  Clement !  What  a  sad  blow  to  all  his 
plans — his  fairy  visions.  Happiness — such  happi 
ness — just  opening  to  his  view,  to  be  thus  suddenly 
withdrawn.  The  tempting  draught  just  touched  his 
lips  and  was  then  dashed  away.  He  remained  for  a 
long  time  overwhelmed  with  the  rush  of  wounded 
feelings — of  mortified  pride.  At  length,  starting  up, 
he  said : 

"  I  will  see  Julia.  I  will  hear  from  her  my 
doom." 

He  as  suddenly  left  the  house,  and  soon  arrived  at 
the  residence  of  Mr.  Parker.  The  servant  admitted 
him  as  usual,  being  in  the  habit  of  considering  him 
almost  as  one  of  the  family,  though,  from  his  disor 
dered  air,  he  discovered  something  extraordinary 
must  have  happened.  Clement  heard  the  sound  of 
many  voices  from  the  back  drawing-room,  where  the 
family  usually  assembled — he  drew  back. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Miss  Julia  alone,"  he  said.  The 
servant  threw  open  the  door  of  the  front  drawing- 
room.  It  was  gloomy,  cold,  and  deserted.  The 
almost  closed  shutters  scarcely  admitted  any  light, 
and  the  furniture,  being  covered,  gave  it  a  cheerless 
appearance. 

He  discovered  Julia  in  one  corner,  seated  on  a  low 
divan,  weeping  bitterly.  He  flew  to  her,  and  soon  un 
burdened  his  heart  to  her.  He  found  her  as  much 


THE   RICH   UNCLE.  303 

overwhelmed  by  the  disappointment  as  himself.  She, 
like  Clement,  could  not  perceive  why  they  could 
not  be  happy  in  their  own  way,  but  felt  that  her  des 
tiny  was  in  the  hands  of  her  parents.  She  would 
never  act  in  opposition  to  them,  and  Clement  could 
not  urge  her  to  leave  her  luxurious  home  to  share 
the  comparatively  small  establishment  he  had  to 
offer.  They  parted  without  any  settled  plans  for 
the  future,  but  their  hearts  were  lighter  from  the 
consciousness  of  their  mutual  attachment.  The  full 
avowal  which  had  taken  place  was  some  balm  for  the 
wounds  of  separation.  Hope  whispered  there  were 
happier  days  in  store  for  them. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Clement  found  he  could 
scarcely  see  or  speak  to  Julia,  for  the  careful  watch 
fulness  of  her  mother,  ever  on  the  alert  to  prevent 
their  intercourse,  debarred  them  from  anything  more 
than  a  passing  glance  when  they  did  meet.  Hope's 
fairy  hues  grew  fainter  and  every  day  dragged  more 
heavily.  Clement's  visits  to  Mrs.  Williams  were 
his  only  comfort,  for  there  he  could  occasionally  see 
his  heart's  idol  at  a  distance,  and  his  poor  old  nurse 
became  the  depository  of  his  secret  sufferings — his 
withered  hopes  and  disappointed  prospects.  He 
thought  fate  could  not  add  another  drop  of  bitter 
ness  to  his  cup,  until  he  became  aroused  by  the  fear 
of  a  favored  rival. 

Rudolph  Delaney,  a  well-known  bacheler,  and  as 
it  was  whispered,  a  sad  roue,  whose  riches  obtained 
for  him  the  passport  into  fashionable  society,  com 
bined  with  highly  polished  manners,  manners  pecu- 


304  THE    RICH   UNCLE. 

liarly  fascinating  to  women,  a  person  which,  though 
un  pen  passe,  when  well  made  up  was  still  very 
attractive.  Intriguing  mothers  and  misses  had  in 
vain  lavished  their  smiles.  He  had  passed  along  from 
flower  to  flower,  ever  seeking  the  fairest — but  none 
had  ever  secured  him — when  he  became  attracted  by 
the  beauty  and  manners  of  Julia.  Her  innocence 
and  natural  grace  was  so  refreshing  after  the  man- 
niere  of  those  he  usually  met,  where  the  real  charac 
ter  is  veiled,  and  an  outward  grace,  like  the  cement 
which  passes  for  polished  marble,  often  conceals  the 
false  interior,  that  he  turned,  sickened,  from  the  cold 
and  heartless,  to  pluck  the  fairest  flower  which  had 
ever  crossed  his  path.  His  wishes  had  never  been 
thwarted,  and  he  dreamed  not  of  any  opposition — 
as  for  a  girlish  fancy  for  Clement  Osborn,  that 
would  soon  be  forgotten  in  the  high  honor  he  con 
ferred  upon  her.  Mrs.  Parker  observed  his  devoue- 
ment  with  the  greatest  satisfaction.  She  had  been 
severely  mortified  by  the  false  move  she  had  made 
with  regard  to  Clement,  and  this  grand  partie 
offering  for  Julia  would  make  all  right,  and  stop  the 
thousand  comments  of  her  dear  five  hundred  friends 
in  the  affair.  Her  blandest  smiles  and  utmost  cour 
tesies  were  now  lavished  on  Delaney.  lie  had  every 
facility  to  be  in  Julia's  society,  and  Julia  was 
schooled  and  scolded  into  apparent  submission  to  her 
mother's  will.  Clement  beheld  the  game  they  were 
playing  in  silent  agony.  To  see  Julia  whirling  past 
him  in  the  waltz,  with  this  man,  whose  character  he 
despised,  or  seated  apart,  on  some  convenient  sofa 


THE    RICH   UNCLE.  305 

or  divan,  apparently  engaged  in  interesting  discourse, 
aroused  his  indignation  against  her  and  every  one. 
Often,  in  these  crowded  assemblies,  the  only  place 
where  he  could  see  her,  where  all  were  happy  and 
joyous,  the  bitterness  of  his  feelings  seemed  preying 
on  his  life — he  felt  as  if  they  were  all  laughing  at 
him — the  only  one  excluded  from  the  light  of  social 

j°ys-  _ 

Spring  arrived,  but  brought  no  flowers  for  Clement. 
One  day,  as  he  made  his  accustomed  visit  to  Mrs. 
Williams,  he  observed  the  house  of  the  Parkers  shut 
up  and  deserted.  She  informed  him  the  family  had 
all  departed  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  a 
large  party,  and  Mr.  Rudolph  Delaney  was  one  of 
the  number. 

Rumors  soon  reached  Clement  from  fashionable 
watering  places,  brought  by  good-natured  friends,  of 
the  gaieties  of  the  Parkers ;  the  tete-a-tete  rides  of 
Julia  and  Delaney — in  short,  it  was  decided  by  those 
who  professed  to  know,  that  the  winter  gaieties  were 
to  commence  with  the  wedding  of  the  rich  Mr.  De 
laney  and  the  beautiful  Miss  Julia  Parker ;  a  wedding 
which  would  surpass  all  others  by  the  number  of 
its  bridesmaids,  the  expense,  the  jewels,  the  costli 
ness  of  the  trappings,  etc.,  orders  for  which,  it  was 
confidently  asserted,  had  already  been  dispatched  to 
Paris. 

The  feverish  excitement  in  Clement  now  settled 

into  a  gloomy  despondency.     Life  seemed    to  offer 

no  enjoyment;  existence  no  object.     He   neglected 

his  affairs,  threw  aside  his  studies,  and  a  silent  gloom 

20 


306  THE    RICH    UNCLE. 

possessed  him  entirely.  The  change  from  his  former 
animation  and  kindliness  of  manner  attracted  the 
attention  of  his  uncle  even ;  he  who  was  usually  so 
unobservant  of  the  joys  and  sufferings  of  others.  If 
there  was  a  being  who  could  penetrate  the  crust  which 
time  and  worldliness  had  wound  around  the  heart  of 
Mr.  George  Osborn,  it  was  Clement.  He  had  been, 
from  a  boy,  dutiful  and  attentive  to  his  uncle.  He 
knew  not  how  insensibly,  by  a  thousand  little  acts 
which  sprung  from  his  kindly  nature,  he  had  won 
his  uncle's  affections.  For  who  has  not  affections  ? 
However  the  heart  may  become  hardened  by  selfish 
ness,  there  ever  must  glow  some  feeling  in  the  human 
heart,  a  spark  divine  it  is  impossible  to  extinguish — 
like  a  spring  of  clear  water,  which,  however  it  may 
become  sullied  or  diminished,  still  remains  pure  in 
the  parent  fountain.  Mr.  Osborn,  the  uncle,  had 
heard  from  the  father  of  Clement  the  story  of  his 
attachment  to  Julia  Parker.  He  supposed  young 
people  had  all  some  affair  of  the  kind  on  hand,  and 
it  had  passed  out  of  his  thoughts.  Those  sort  of  pas 
sions  were  like  the  measles  and  whooping  cough, 
which  must  be  passed  through,  the  sooner  the  better. 
As  he  agreed  with  his  brother  in  not  liking  the  Par 
kers,  he  was  glad  it  had  terminated  thus.  But 
Clement's  unaccountable  dejection  had  deprived  him 
of  one  of  his  greatest  pleasures.  The  gay  and  en 
tertaining  conversation  of  his  nephew  had  become 
necessary  to  him.  Now,  his  meals  passed  dull  and 
gloomily.  Clement  sent  away  untouched  the  rarest 
delicacies,  though  cooked  in  the  most  scientific  man 
ner.  His  uncle  observed  him  with  surprise,  for  eat- 


THE    RICH    UNCLE.  307 

ing  had  ever  been  one  of  the  great  objects  of  his 
life,  and  a  loss  of  appetite  he  considered  one  of  the 
greatest  of  misfortunes. 

"Why,  Clement,"  said  he,  "  you  are  not  well ; 
you  confine  yourself  too  much  to  your  office.  Take 
a  trip  to  the  country  ;  you  really  appear  quite  ill." 

Clement  assured  his  uncle  he  was  perfectly  well, 
had  no  wish  for  change  of  air  and  scenery,  and 
scarcely  attended  to  business  at  all.  The  uncle  said 
no  more,  but  pondered  on  the  matter.  His  anxiety 
was  aroused.  He  determined  to  watch  Clement,  and 
was  surprised  to  find  him  so  listless  and  gloomy.  He 
went  to  consult  Mrs.  Williams  about  the  health  of 
Clement,  and  she  informed  him  of  the  cause  of  his 
dejection.  Still  he  could  not  comprehend  why  the 
loss  of  a  heartless  hussy  could  transform  a  fine,  live 
ly,  high-spirited  young  man  into  a  useless  creature. 

The  summer  had  passed  away ;  Saratoga  and 
Rockaway  began  to  be  deserted.  The  sea  beach  no 
longer  was  trod  by  the  light  foot  of  beauty ;  dandies 
no  longer  lounged  along  its  sands.  It  was  after  a 
cool,  bleak  day  ;  the  setting  sun  had  tinged  the 
heavens  with  its  most  gorgeous  hues.  Every  distant 
object  was  distinct  in  the  pure  atmosphere,  as  Mr. 
George  Osborn  and  his  silent  nephew  were  slowly 
taking  their  usual  stroll  on  the  Battery.  Never 
did  the  waves  look  more  lovely  as  they  reflected  the 
changing  hues  of  the  clouds — whilst  the  thousand 
light  skiffs,  the  swelling  sails,  the  dashing  steam-boats, 
the  noble  ships,  gave  animation  to  the  scene.  The 
beauties  of  it,  however,  were  lost  to  Clement,  for 


308  THE   RICH   UNCLE. 

memory  brought  back  too  vividly  the  days  when  he 
had  trod  those  paths  with  Julia,  when  love  and  hope 
were  his ;  and  now,  the  idea  ever  uppermost,  that 
another  could  gaze  on  her  bright,  animated  counte 
nance,  could  be  privileged  to  watch  its  varying  hues, 
hung  upon  his  spirits  with  deadening  weight. 

This  most  delightful  promenade  was  nearly  de 
serted  ;  a  few  loungers  on  the  paved  walk  were  all 
who  enjoyed  this  most  brilliant  of  sunsets.  As 
Mr.  Osborn  and  his  '  nephew  were  coming  up 
the  willow  walk,  they  noticed  the  only  individuals 
besides  themselves  were  a  young  lady  and  a  boy, 
who  were  rapidly  approaching,  as  they  came  near. 

Clement  recognized  Julia  and  a  young  brother. 
Never  did  she  look  more  lovely.  The  cool,  fresh  air 
had  tinged  the  roses  of  her  cheek  to  a  deeper  dye  ; 
her  eyes  sparkled  with  unusual  brilliancy,  arid  her 
step,  free  and  light,  seemed  like  one  devoid  of  care. 
She  passed  rapidly  on,  like  some  bright  being  which 
flits  by  or  in  a  dream.  She  did  not  perceive  Clem 
ent  until  quite  near ;  then  the  sudden  rush  of  blood 
to  her  cheeks,  her  faltering  steps,  her  fluttered  man 
ner,  showed  her  recognition  ;  but  he  looked  straight 
forward  with  a  stern,  contracted  brow.  His  uncle, 
however,  stopped  and  looked  after  her,  struck  with 
her  loveliness,  and  the  innocence  of  expression  so 
peculiar  to  her. 

"  That's  a  pretty  girl,  is  she  not  ?  "  he  said.  His 
nephew  made  no  answer.  "  Who  is  she  ?  she  seems 
to  know  you,  for  she  turned  very  red  at  sight  of 

you." 


THE   RICH   UNCLE.  309 

"  She  is  Miss  Julia  Parker,"  said  Clement,  in  a 
forced  tone  of  voice. 

"  What,  your  girl,  eh,  Clem  ?  She  you  have  been 
moping  about,"  said  his  uncle.  "  Well,  I  would 
have  her  in  spite  of  them — she  is  too  nice  looking  for 
any  of  those  fashionable  dandies." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  said  Clement, "  they  have  matched 
her  more  to  their  mind — she  is  already  betrothed  to 
Rudolph  Delaney." 

"  To  that  dissipated  gambler  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Os- 
born,  "  I  know  him  well,  and  I  knew  his  father  be 
fore  him,  who  was  no  better  than  a  blackleg.  Yes, 
he  won  this  large  fortune,  which  he  bequeathed  to 
his  son,  by  fleecing  silly  young  men,  who  had  better 
have  been  at  their  counting-houses,  minding  their 
business.  This  continued  good  luck  was  not  all 
chance  ;  he  was  no  better  than  a  thief,  and  if  any  one 
ever  deserved  the  State  Prison  it  was  he.  The 
son  is  not  much  better ;  how  could  he  be,  never 
brought  up  to  any  business,  with  the  idea  of  possess 
ing  a  large  fortune.  I  have  heard  enough  of  him,  of 
his  chere  amies  and  such  doings.  It  is  a  shame.  She 
shan't  have  him  if  I  can  help  it.  She  is  too  good — I 
know  it  by  her  looks." 

When  they  had  reached  Broadway  gate,  the  uncle 
hurriedly  left  Clement,  saying  he  might  take  another 
turn,  as  he  had  business  to  attend  to.  Clement 
had  cast  a  glance  behind  for  Julia — he  feared  she 
had  gone  around  by  the  State  Street  side.  He 
hesitated,  undecided  what  course  to  pursue.  At 
one  tirna  he  resolved  to  m3et  her  once  more,  to  have 


310  THE    RICH   UNCLE. 

one  more  interview,  and  reproach  her  for  her  forget 
fulness  ;  then  he  felt  as  if  he  could  never  see  her 
again.  Since  she  had  transferred  her  heart  to 
another — he  could  never  behold  that  lovely  counte 
nance,  which  once  to  him  expressed  so  much  truth 
and  purity.  At  length,  impelled  by  a  sudden  im 
pulse,  he  hastily  approached  her,  whilst  her  heedless 
brother  no  sooner  saw  his  sister  provided  with  an 
other  escort,  than  he  made  his  escape  to  join  some 
young  companions  whom  he  had  seen  fishing  from  the 
bridge  of  Castle  Garden. 

As  Clement  and  Julia  were  both  naturally  frank 
and  open  in  their  dispositions,  they  soon  came  to  an 
explanation.  It  seemed  that  Delaney  had  been  ex 
tremely  devoted  to  Julia  all  summer ;  as  his  career 
had,  hitherto,  been  one  of  entire  success  with  the 
ladies,  he  never  doubted  of  her  soon  becoming  duly 
sensible  of  the  honor  of  his  address,  notwithstanding 
her  present  manifest  indifference  ;  he  attributed  it  to 
a  girlish  fancy  for  Clement,  which  would  soon  pass 
away.  Encouraged  in  those  sentiments  by  Mr. 
Parker,  he  had  persevered,  and  Julia  ever  found 
herself  obliged  to  dance,  ride,  or  walk  with  him  in 
all  their  rural  excursions.  She  was  continually  con 
demned  to  a  place  in  his  bijou  of  a  carriage — a  situ 
ation  of  penance  for  her,  though  envied  by  others. 
She  was  resolved  to  repulse  him  if  he  gave  her  an 
opportunity,  though  her  heart  sank  with  dread  at 
the  scene  which  she  knew  would  ensue  with  her 
mother  ;  and  sometimes  it  seemed  so  appalling  to  her, 
she  feared  she  would  be  obliged  to  submit  to  a  fate 


THE   RICH   UNCLE.  311 

that  often  appeared  inevitable,  rather  than  encounter 
the  indignation  of  her  family.  They  returned  at 
length  to  the  city. 

Mrs.  Parker  had  never  ceased  endeavoring  to  im 
press  on  her  daughter's  mind  the  splendid  establish 
ment  within  her  power,  her  envied  situation  as  the 
chosen  one  of  the  much  admired  Rudolph  ;  and  as 
Julia  ceased  to  contest  the  point,  the  mother  sup 
posed  she  had  at  length  acquiesced.  On  that  very 
day  Delaney  had  declared  himself  to  Julia,  and  she 
had  peremptorily  refused  him.  She  scrupled  not  to 
inform  him,  to  escape  his  importunities,  that  her  heart 
was  unalterably  given  to  another.  He  knew  there 
was  no  hope,  and  he  left  her  with  rage  and  mortifi 
cation  in  his  breast.  Her  heart  was  lightened,  for 
she  had  taken  one  step,  and  the  most  decided  one, 
in  the  affair  which  had  been  hanging  over  her  all 
summer.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  freed  herself  from  a 
frightful  evil,  and  to  escape  the  family  scene  she 
called  a  younger  brother,  and  repaired  to  the  Bat 
tery.  The  fresh,  pure  air  lightened  her  youthful, 
elastic  spirit  from  a  load  which  had  long  repressed 
its  animation  ;  brought  the  bloom  again  to  her  cheek, 
and  made  her  step  once  more  free  and  light. 
Clement  arid  Julia  walked  and  talked,  indulging 
once  more  the  overflowing  of  their  hearts,  until  the 
lessening  twilight  warned  them  to  depart.  He  ac 
companied  her  to  the  door,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
bidding  her  a  reluctant  adieu,  whilst  her  heart  sank 
with  apprehension  at  the  thought  of  meeting  her  dis 
appointed  mother,  when  the  house  door  suddenly 


312  THE   RICH   UNCLE. 

opened,  and  Mr.  George  Osborn  appeared,  ushered 
out  with  every  mark  of  attention  by  Mr.  Varker 
himself. 

"  Oh,  Clement,"  said  his  uncle,  in  a  low  tone, 
"just  in  time  ;  I  have  settled  it  all  for  you ;  go  in, 
go  in  ;  there  are  no  objections  now  to  you,  you  can 
have  your  Julia — " 

In  short,  Mr.  Osborn  had  proceeded  from  the  Bat 
tery  to  Mr.  Parker's,  and  arrived  just  at  the  time 
when  father  and  mother  and  all  had  gone  mad  at 
the  perversity  of  Julia,  in  refusing  so  splendid  an  es 
tablishment  ;  he  had  made  such  liberal  offers  that 
even  the  grasping  Parkers  were  satisfied,  and  it  was 
agreed  that  Clement  should  in  future  be  received  as 
the  accepted  lover  of  Julia. 

We  need  not  dwell  on  the  happiness  of  the  youth 
ful  pair.  Some  can  imagine  it.  They  married  and 
resided  afterwards  with  the  uncle,  who  soon  found 
his  nephew's  spirits  restored  to  their  usual  happy 
flow,  and  acknowledged  his  niece  gave  a  charm  to 
his  fireside  it  had  never  known  before.  Their  happy 
faces  at  his  luxurious  board  gave  a  new  zest  to  even 
the  costly  delicacies  which  it  was  one  great  object  of 
his  life  to  procure,  and  he  found  that  conferring  hap 
piness  was  a  more  delicious  seasoner  of  viands  than 
the  science  of  gastronomy  could  produce.  Clement 
perceived  the  former  gloomy  air  of  his  magnificent 
home  had  vanished  under  the  cheering  influence  of  a 
woman  of  taste,  the  first  wish  of  whose  heart  was  to 
perform  her  domestic  duties. 

Mrs.  Parker  and  Adelaide  managed  so  well  to 


THE   RICH   UNCLE.  313 

soothe  the  mortification  of  Rudolph  Delaney,  that  he 
transferred  the  honor  intended  for  Julia  to  her  more 
dashing  sister,  and  if  she  was  not  his  first  choice,  she 
at  least  appeared  more  gratified  for  the  honor  con 
ferred.  He  married  her,  hoping  to  conceal  from  the 
world  his  refusal  by  Julia,  as  rumor,  he  supposed, 
would  think  it  had  hitherto  mistaken  the  sister. 
They  were  as  happy  as  a  fashionable  couple  may  be, 
united  from  similar  motives.  Mrs.  Williams  only 
lived  to  witness  the  happiness  of  her  beloved  Clement, 
and  then  sank  gradually  to  her  eternal  rest,  like  a 
happy  child  reposing  on  the  bosom  of  a  parent. 

B.  F. 


f}ej>ubli(&ni$ijq  k  ^ai 


By  a  member  of  the  California  Bar. 


HEN   the    first   gun    from  the  parapets  of 
i/w 

Charleston   opened  fire  upon   Fort  Sumter, 

the  people  of  the  Northern  States  experienced  a 
thrill  of  horror,  quickly  followed  by  a  stern  resolu 
tion  to  uphold  the  Union  at  any  sacrifice,  of  blood  or 
treasure. 

The  national  flag  had  commanded  respect  abroad  ; 
it  had  been  considered  the  symbol  of  freedom  and 
civilization;  the  area  of  territory  over  which  it  float 
ed  had  been  gradually  expanding  ;  nor  was  he  con 
sidered  a  visionary  who  fondly  interpreted  that  it 
would  soon  be  streaming  in  every  breeze,  from  the 
Isthmus  to  the  Pole.  All  at  once  the  political  skies 
darkened,  the  emblem  of  nationality  lay  trailing  in 
the  dust,  and  the  prospect  became  imminent  that 
the  republic  might  soon  experience  the  throes  of 
dissolution  and  its  consequent  disaster.  In  the  pres 
ence  of  a  contingency  so  dreadful,  the  people  of  the 
North  lost  heart  only  for  a  moment.  The  gigantic 
exertions  they  made  ;  the  terrible  reverses  they  met ; 
their  final  success,  are  matters  of  history  ;  and  it  is 


IS   REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE?  315 

simply  a  very  grave  question  now  arising,  whether  the 
Union,  saved  at  so  great  a  sacrifice,  will  be  product 
ive  of  those  blessings  deemed  incompatible  without 
it.  An  inquiry  of  such  a  nature  to  a  few  may  ap 
pear  novel,  to  many  absurd,  while  to  the  patriotic 
mass  it  may  smack  of  something  like  treason.  That 
it  should,  however,  be  seriously  raised  by  one  whose 
patriotism  has  never  been  doubted,  offers  evidence 
that  it  is  worthy  of  some  consideration.  The  time 
has  passed  when  we  can  any  longer  hoodwink  our 
selves,  nor  can  a  candid  criticism  upon  any  govern 
ment  be  sneered  at,  notwithstanding  such  criticism 
should  go  to  the  extent  of  making  that  government 
appear  as  anything  but  a  paragon  of  excellence. 

Modern  civilization  is  fast  inculcating  the  idea  that 
the  general  dissemination  of  happiness  among  men 
is  the  prime  end  of  all  government.  The  notion  at 
the  same  time  seems  generally  to  prevail,  that  the 
democratic  or  republican  form,  by  all  odds,  best  sub 
serves  that  purpose,  and  so  strongly  does  this  con 
ception  obtain,  that  any  argument  against  it  is  im 
mediately  construed  into  an  argument  in  favor  of 
royalty. 

That  experience  does  not  entirely  coincide  with 
these  views,  appears  quite  apparent,  when  we  trace 
the  history  of  various  modern  republics ;  especially 
that  of  Mexico,  and  those  of  South  America. 

That  they  have  been  successful  in  aiding  the  dis 
semination  of  happiness  and  prosperity  among  their 
cities,  is  a  proposition  for  which  even  the  most 
zealous  enthusiast  for  republics  will  not  contend. 


316  IS    REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE  ? 

Their  governments  have  in  the  main  been  modeled 
after  that  of  the  United  States.  They  have  been 
blessed  with  boundless  resources  ;  with  a  virgin  soil, 
teeming  with  mineral  and  agricultural  wealth  ;  and 
with  a  climate  so  diversified  as  to  bring  forth  in  lux 
uriance  the  products  of  the  tropics  as  well  as  the 
temperate  zone.  This  being  acknowledged,  anl  be 
yond  dispute,  it  certainly  seems  doubtful  at  the  first 
blush  whether  a  republican  government  is  so  superior 
a  government  after  all.  Hence,  we  shall  approach 
such  an  inquiry  as  we  have  proposed  free,  if  possible, 
from  all  preconceived  opinions.  The  time  was  when 
no  Englishman  dared  dispute  the  divine  right  of 
kings.  The  time  has  come,  let  us  hope,  when  Amer 
icans  may  dispassionately  exercise  the  right  of  criti 
cism  with  reference  to  their  own  government. 

The  exercise  of  such  a  right  can  do  no  harm  ;  but 
only  redound  in  benefit.  It  may  reveal  foul  excres 
cences  in  the  body  politic,  which  a  ready  application 
of  the  principles  of  sound  political  surgery  may  heal. 
If  the  conclusion  is  reached  that  the  great  govern 
ment  purchased  by  our  Revolutionary  sires  is  a 
failure  ;  that  it  is  theoretically  perfect,  but  in  practice 
a  delusion  ;  and  that  it  is  fostering  a  hateful  aristoc 
racy,  whose  only  basis  is  the  aggregation  of  wealth 
by  means,  perhaps  lawful,  though  at  the  same  time 
utterly  unscrupulous :  let  us  still  live  in  hope  that  all 
is  not  yet  lost ;  that  the  avenue  to  reformation  still 
remains  open,  while  the  right  of  revolution  exists,  as 
it  will  always  exist,  against  every  form  of  proud  op 
pression  or  tyranny.  It  is  generally  the  last  process 


IS    REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE?  317 

employed  ;  and  though  the  remedy  is  dreadful,  it  is 
seldom  unequal  to  the  exigencies  of  the  disease. 

For  communism  we  have  the  strongest  abhorrence. 
It  is  in  principle  radically  opposed  to  the  laws  of  so 
cial  development,  and  all  the  evils  contained  in  the 
box  of  Pandora  would  weigh  as  nothing  in  compar 
ison  with  those  which  would  be  put  forth  by  this  hy 
dra-headed  monster,  were  it  permitted  to  acquire  gov 
ernmental  ascendency. 

The  terrible  nature  of  its  venom,  when  injected  in 
the  body  politic,  may  be  feebly  understood  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  harrowing  events  to  which  it 
gave  rise  in  the  French  capital,  at  the  close  of  the 
Franco-Prussian  war.  No  safety  for  life,  no  security 
for  property,  streets  drenched  with  blood.  The  torch 
of  the  incendiary  at  every  corner,  a  fusillade  of  cit 
izens  in  every  boulevard,  excesses  surpassing  in 
magnitude  and  wickedness  those  of  the  first  revolu 
tion — these  were  some  of  the  effects  of  the  doctrines 
of  Rochefort  and  his  compeers. 

These  doctrines  could  have  obtained  no  support, 
had  not  the  people  been  driven  to  fury  by  imagining 
that  the  great  catastrophe  which  had  befallen  France 
was  the  result  of  the  blunders  of  the  Imperial 
regime.  Out  of  the  impending  chaos  they  saw  no 
path  to  salvation.  They  had  been  betrayed,  despoiled 
of  their  territory,  their  banner  had  been  disgraced, 
the  invader  had  rung  peans  of  triumph  under  arches 
inscribed  with  victories  from  the  days  of  Marengo  to 
those  of  Solferino. 

But  the  leaven  of  communism  exists  in  the  United 


318  IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE  ? 

States.  When  the  conditions  for  its  operations  are 
ripe,  which  good  statesmanship  alone  can  avert,  the 
world  may  witness  a  social  phenomenon  characterized 
by  scenes  and  events  not  unworthy  to  be  classed  with 
those  of  Pandemonium.  The  more  intelligent  the 
people,  the  more  powerfully  will  they  experience  the 
sense  of  wrong,  the  keener  will  be  their  appreciation 
of  injustice,  and  the  intolerable  nature  of  their 
bonds.  When  they  behold  society  marching  in  two 
parallel  lines,  the  one  carrying  with  it  all  political 
power,  and , aggregating  to  it  all  wealth ;  the  other 
running  amid  gradually  increasing  indigence,  possess 
ing  political  power  in  theory,  but  its  shadow  only  in 
practice  ;  they  will  naturally  conclude  that  if  such  a 
condition  is  the  product  of  law  irresistible  by  law, 
that  the  law  must  be  changed.  This  change  must 
be  resisted ;  the  resistance  must  prove  successful,  as 
long  as  the  attempt  is  made  through  the  same  chan 
nels  which  gave  it  birth,  to  wit :  the  law.  Finally, 
the  moment  of  agony  and  despair  must  come,  the 
terrible  Gordian  knot  must  be  untied  at  all  hazards, 
and  the  laws  must  be  overthrown.  To  restore  so 
ciety  to  anything  like  its  natural  equilibrium  must, 
under  such  circumstances,  be  exceedingly  difficult. 
The  edifice  must  be  razed  to  the  ground  ere  the 
work  of  reconstruction  can  be  begun.  This  must 
entail  ruin,  destruction,  bloodshed,  the  absence  of 
refinement,  the  generation  of  abject  vices,  the  reign 
of  a  barbaric  spirit. 

That   no   such  dreadful   contingency   shall   ever 
arise,  we  most  fervently  hope  ;  that  it  will  not  arise 


IS    REPUBLICANISM    A    FAILURE?  319 

if    the  people    are  awakened   in    time,   we   firmly 
believe. 

At  the  present  time  they  are  lulled  to  a  sense  of 
entire  security.  The  country  presents  all  the  indi 
cations  of  prosperity.  Its  material  wealth  is  increas 
ing  year  by  year.  Food  is  cheap  and  plentiful ; 
wages  are  high,  and  land  is  in  abundance.  Is  it 
probable  that  the  picture  of  plenty  and  content 
which  we  now  behold  on  every  hand,  will  continue 
to  increase  with  the  coming  years,  and  keep  pace 
with  the  growth  of  the  population  ?  That  is  one  of 
the  inquiries  involved  in  the  question  before  us.  To 
answer  it  in  the  affirmative  would  be  a  virtual  sur 
render  to  everything  like  discussion — nay,  it  would 
require  a  degree  of  enthusiasm  more  befitting  a 
Fourth  of  July  orator  than  an  unimpassioned  thinker. 
Nor  would  it  be  fitting  to  answer  it  in  the  negative, 
without  a  judicious  examination  into  the  final  result 
of  operating  causes. 

The  North  American  continent  was  settled  by  a 
sturdy  race  of  people — a  people,  for  the  most  part, 
intolerant  of  anything  like  religious  oppression — who 
preferred,  among  wilds  and  wildernesses,  the  bless 
ings  of  liberty,  to  anything  like  submission  to  kingly 
rule  and  ease  and  plenty. 

They  founded  this  Great  Republic.  When  they 
beheld  it  fairly  launched,  their  pride  and  joy  knew 
no  bonds.  They  were  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  liberty.  It  was  as  necessary  to  them,  they 
could  no  more  live  without  it,  than  without  the  air  of 
Heaven.  The  luxuries  of  life  they  indeed  courted, 


320  IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE? 

but  these  luxuries  were  not  the  only  spurs  to  their 
ambition.  They  looked  to  something  beyond  the 
almighty  dollar.  They  considered  that  a  clear  con 
science  was  preferable  to  power  and  the  accumula 
tion  of  riches.  While  they  gloried  in  their  religious 
principles,  they  were  religious ;  and  not,  indeed,  to 
the  extent  of  bigotry  or  fanaticism,  but  to  that  de 
sirable  limit  which  gives  spiritual  things  an  ascen 
dancy  over  things  which  are  material.  They  were 
not  satisfied  with  the  moral  harvests  which  they 
might  reap  in  their  day  and  generation,  but  they 
looked  far  beyond,  and  they  scattered  the  seed 
which  was  to  produce  fruits  long  after  they  had 
passed  away.  They  were  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
self-sacrifice ;  they  were  patriotic  in  the  largest 
view.  They  loved  their  country  because  it  was  a 
country  in  which  good  men  abounded,  dominated  in 
their  conduct  by  a  sturdy  store  of  truth  and  right. 
They  administered  the  law  in  the  spirit  as  well  as 
the  letter,  with  an  impartial  judicial  eye.  He  who 
had  stolen  fabulous  sums,  and  who,  in.  our  days  of 
mock  politeness,  would  be  termed  a  defaulter,  was 
branded  as  a  felon,  and  consigned  to  the  same  recep 
tacle  as  the  petty  thief,  who  glories  in  the  accom 
plishment  of  picking  a  pocket  or  tapping  a  till ;  and 
a  representative  of  the  people  was  looked  upon  with 
honor  and  respect ;  and  he  who,  in  a  moment  of  in 
fatuation,  should  have  bartered  his  vote,  would  have 
been  considered  a  political  Judas,  too  base  to  be 
shielded  upon  this  earth,  except  by  a  universal  hiss 
of  execration. 


IS   KEPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE  ?  321 

The  supple  knee  was  not  then  fawningly  bent  to 
wealth.  Affluence,  unaccompanied  by  worth,  if  not 
treated  with  absolute  disdain,  was  permitted  to 
flourish  in  quiet  obscurity.  Gold  had  not  become 
the  open  sesame  before  whose  magical  touch  the  por 
tals  in  every  avenue  of  life  were  to  swing  open. 
Suspicion,  in  her  most  silent  whisperings,  had  never 
dared  to  say  aught  against  the  purity  of  him  who, 
standing  in  the  pulpit,  taught  lessons  of  virtue  as 
he  expounded  the  sacred  passages  of  scripture. 

The  gigantic  cabals  of  modern  days,  euphoniously 
denominated  corporations — convenient  instruments 
for  enriching  a  few  at  the  expense  of  the  many, 
through  a  refined  system  of  knavery  which  sets  both 
law  and  decency  at  defiance — were  comparatively 
unknown  in  that  unsophisticated  era  of  the  republic. 
Cant,  hypocrisy,  and  humbug  appeared  to  be  under 
stood,  but  much  more  frequently  were  at  a  discount 
than  a  premium. 

The  councils  of  the  nation  were  filled  with  sages 
esteemed  for  their  integrity,  honored  for  their 
scholarship  and  attainments,  and  venerated  for  long 
years  of  disinterested  labor  in  the  public  service. 
He  who  should  have  dared  aspire  to  commingle  with 
such  spirits  in  such  an  arena,  basing  his  hopes  of 
success  upon  the  merchantable  quality  of  the  mem 
bers  of  the  Legislature  of  a  State,  would  have  been 
considered  a  fit  subject  to  be  hurled  from  a  new 
Tarpeian  rock.  Those  were  the  halcyon  days  ;  per 
haps  entitled  by  some  of  the  progressive  mortals  of 
the  present  epoch,  the  days  of  Rip  Van  Winkleism 
21 


322  IS    REPUBLICANISM    A    FAILURE? 

and  Old  Fogyism.  Never  mind  how  they  be  carica 
tured  :  as  long  as  the  Republic  exists,  she  shall  know 
them  no  more,  except  in  the  example  which  they 
may  teach ;  and  thank  God  that  so  much  remains. 

Since  the  revolution,  the  country  has  undergone 
many  changes.  The  people  were  then,  as  to  blood, 
distinctly  English.  Now  we  find,  with  perhaps  the 
exception  of  the  New  England  States,  a  population 
in  whose  veins  the  blood  of  the  great  European 
nationalities  is  commingled.  The  infusion  of  the 
German  and  the  Irish  blood  has  been  so  great  as  to 
metamorphose  the  character  of  the  original  stock.  At 
the  same  time,  neither  the  Teuton  nor  the  Celtic 
type  seems  to  predominate.  A  new  product  has  been 
the  result  of  this  intermixture  of  European  races  ; 
and  not  a  Yankee  product  either,  but  one  which,  in 
the  absence  of  a  better  appellation,  may  be  denom 
inated  American.  Year  by  year,  as  immigration 
flows  in  upon  our  shores,  the  elements  that  go  to 
form  the  national  character  receive  new  accessions. 
The  population  is  now,  however,  so  large,  that  these 
new  accessions,  derived  from  the  same  sources  and 
in  equal  proportions,  can  effect  but  little  change  in 
the  individuality  of  the  people. 

That  individuality  is  for  all  intents  and  purposes 
established.  The  individuality  of  the  Turks  has  had 
a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  laws,  customs,  manners, 
and  morals  of  the  Turks.  When  the  German  indi 
viduality  is  impressed  upon  Lorraine  and  Alasce,  as 
it  will  be  if  Prussia  can  hold  those  conquered  provinc 
es  for  a  century,  we  shall  see  a  people  as  devoted 


IS    REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE  ?  323 

to  Germany  as  they  are  now  to  France.  In  Ireland, 
it  has  remained  the  same  for  centuries.  In  Spain, 
its  grades  of  variation  can  be  distinctly  traced  from 
the  time  of  the  monks.  In  France,  it  exhibits  only 
a  feeble  degree  of  variation.  The  country  that  pre 
sents  it  unchanged  during  the  longest  period  of  time 
is  China,  and  that  which  seems  to  shake  it  off  with  the 
same  ease  that  an  animal  sheds  its  skin,  is'  her  neigh 
bor,  Japan.  This  would  seem  to  establish  the  fact 
that  nations,  like  individuals,  have  their  characteris 
tics  ;  that  they  are  in  a  large  measure  guided  and 
influenced  by  them  ;  and  that  systems  of  government 
and  certain  constitutions  may  comport  with  the 
genius  of  the  one  and  be  at  war  with  the  genius  of 
the  other.  It  cannot  be  seriously  questioned,  that 
the  individuality  of  the  people  of  the  United  States 
has  undergone  a  most  astonishing  revolution  in  half 
a  century.  Their  characteristics  were  then  such 
that  they  preferred  a  republic  to  any  other  kind  of 
government.  They  were  ready  to  make  any  sacri 
fice  in  order  to  obtain  it,  and  they  watched  its  pro 
gress  with  earnest  and  even  jealous  solicitude. 

The  ties  that  now  bind  the  American  to  the  gov 
ernment  have  become  comparatively  weak.  Many 
there  are  who  do  not  scruple  to  denounce  it  as  a  hum 
bug  or  as  a  failure,  rotten  from  the  surface  to  the 
core.  There  does  not  seem  to  exist  any  prevailing 
sentiment  that  it  ought  to  be  reformed,  and  any  dis 
cussion  upon  that  point  is  by  no  means  relished. 
The  idea  seems  to  obtain  that  the  existing  evils  are 
beyond  all  remedy ;  that  they  flow  in  a  broad,  deep, 


324  IS   REPUBLICANISM   A    FAILURE  ? 

overwhelming  current ;  and  that  good  sense  would 
dictate  the  policy  of  being  borne  along  with  it,  in 
stead  of  bearing  up  against  it. 

Transactions  daily  occur,  in  one.  governmental  de 
partment  or  the  other,  tainted  with  the  grossest  fraud. 
The  newspapers  discuss  them  with  imperturable  sang 
froid,  and  citizens  consider  them  as  a  matter  of 
course,  as  much  to  be  expected  as  the  rising  of  the 
sun  or  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide. 

This  certainly  seems  a  most  singular  manner  for  a 
great,  enlightened,  progressive  people,  to  view  the 
conduct  of  those  upon  whom  it  has  conferred  the 
functions  of  government.  It  gives  evidence  of  a 
pusillanimous,  cowardly  spirit.  It  bespeaks  a  degree 
of  abjectness  which  would  hardly  be  commendable  in  a 
serf.  Such  a  spirit  may  be  generated  in  part  by  a  wick 
ed  and  corrupt  government;  but  a  tame  acquiescence 
in  its  corruptness  and  wickedness  will  cause  that 
government  to  make  larger  and  larger  encroachments 
upon  decency  and  principle,  with  less  .and  less  pros 
pect  of  serious  opposition.  This,  too,  when  it  is  con 
sidered  that  every  event  of  any  importance  is  not 
only  circumstantially  related,  but  inexhaustibly  dis 
cussed  by  the  newspapers.  The  doses  of  unpalat 
able  information  are  presented  with  such  regularity 
as  perhaps,  finally,  to  create  a  surfeit.  The  evil  af 
fects  the  Federal  government ;  it  enters  into  State 
governments  ;  it  twines  itself  in  the  concerns  of  coun 
ties,  it  is  closely  associated  with  municipalities.  Here 
it  is  PomBroy,  there  it  is  Tweed,  again  it  is  Marks. 

There  was  a  time  when  such  a  condition  of  things 


IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE?  325 

would  not  have  been  undergone  for  a  moment. 
Twenty  years  ago  it  existed  to  an  infinitely  smaller 
extent,  and  it  is  since  the  close  of  the  war  that  it  has 
assumed  proportions  which  almost  stagger  belief. 
After  the  inauguration  of  hostilities,  there  was  virtu 
ally  but  one  party  I.,  the-  country.  The  Democracy 
occasionally  obtained  a  spasmodic  triumph  in  New 
York  or  Indiana,  but  as  a  national  party  presenting 
any  serious  opposition,  it  had  no  vitality.  The  party 
in  power  was  permitted  to  assume  the  reins.  It 
found  itself  face  to  face  with  new  and  unheard-of 
issues,  and  it  resorted  to  new  and  unheard-of  ex 
pedients.  The  yearly  expenditures  which  had  been 
deemed  extravagant  in  the  days  of  Pierce  and 
Buchanan,  were  suddenly  increased  ten-fold.  The 
supplies  necessary  to  the  sustenance  and  the  fitting 
out  of  great  armies  stimulated  every  branch  of 
trade,  and  served  to  enrich  a  horde  of  unscru 
pulous  contractors,  whose  mansions,  faced  with  brown 
stone,  are  subjects  of  admiration  in  the  metropolis 
of  the  Union.  In  the  general  excitement  which 
prevailed,  the  people,  jiow  exultant  with  victory 
and  now  depressed  by  defeat,  paid  little  heed  to 
the  frauds  generally  practiced.  Unused  to  the 
pecuniary  exigencies  of  a  gigantic  war,  their  ex 
perience  could  not  check  the  flow  of  extravagance 
and  corruption  which  it  entailed. 

Victory  finally  crowned  the  efforts  of  the  North. 
The  national  debt  amounted  close  upon  three  billions. 
The  States,  too,  were  largely  indebted  ;  and  even 
cities  and  towns  saw  in  their  depleted  exchequers 


326  IS    REPUBLICANISM    A    FAILURE? 

some  of  the  direful  results  of  the  great  struggle. 
But  neither  the  Federal  government,  the  States,  nor 
the  Towns  seemed  to  feel  any  pecuniary  enervation. 
The  greenbacks,  everwhere  but  in  California,  flooded 
the  country.  They  could  not  buy  as  much  as  specie 
before  the  war,  but  they  were  ten  times  as  common 
as  specie  had  been  ;  and  as  the  people  had  gradually 
been  taught  that  they  constituted  money,  they  were 
satisfied  as  long  as  they  were  plentiful.  If  they 
could  not  get  a  small  amount  of  gold,  they  could  get 
plenty  of  greenbacks.  Commerce,  instead  of  droop 
ing,  seemed  in  all  its  channels  to  be  galvanized  into 
new  life.  The  great  West,  which  appeared  to  have 
suffered  much,  became  the  field  of  new  enterprise. 
Manufactures  and  commerce  flourished  as  they  had 
never  at  any  time  previously. 

Appearances,  however,  were  deceptive.  The  ma 
terial  productions  increased.  The  surplus  found 
a  ready  customer  in  the  government,  which,  pay 
ing  for  all  war  commodities  in  greenbacks,  was 
not  inclined  to  be  over  economical  in  its  bargains. 
The  middleman  argued  with  plausibility,  that  an  ever 
fluctuating  currency  presented  such  future  hazards 
with  regard  to  his  gains,  that  he  was  warranted  in 
demanding  what  seemed  exorbitant  rates.  Articles 
were  in  immediate  need ;  there  was  no  time  for  ad 
vertising  for  supplies  on  the  basis  of  competition. 
Hence  the  government  was,  so  to  speak,  "  made  to 
stand  and  deliver";  and  one  thousand  million  dollars 
in  greenbacks,  thirty-three  per  cent,  of  the  cost  of 
the  war,  very  nearly  represents  the  sum  which,  above 


IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE  ?  327 

fair  profits,  went  into  the  pockets  of  the  middlemen  or 
contractors.  These  became  suddenly  elevated  to  the 
very  pinnacle  of  wealth  ;  and  the  reign  of  the  Ameri 
can  shoddy  aristocracy  thence  took  its  rise.  As  for 
the  masses  of  the  people,  they  made  no  sort  of  head 
way  in  the  improvement  of  their  worldly  condition. 
Their  earnings  had  indeed  increased  in  value,  but 
the  general  commodities  of  life  had  increased  pari 
passu;  and  while  they  handled  larger  sums,  and 
seemed  to  realize  larger  profits,  a  calculation  of  the 
difference  existing  between  paper  and  gold  taught 
them  how  chimerical  had  been  their  ideas  of  increased 
returns. 

The  cities  generally  reaped  large  pecuniary  advan 
tages.  The  raw  material  necessary  in  manufacture 
by  no  means  preserved  an  equal  ratio',  as  to  value, 
with  the  manufactured  articles  themselves.  Hence 
the  manufacturers  amassed  a  larger  corresponding 
degree  of  wealth  than  the  producers.  Nor  was  this 
less  true  with  regard  to  the  merchants.  The  cities, 
hence,  gained  largely  in  wealth,  and  the  millionaires, 
that  had  been  scarce,  became  numerous.  A  large 
class  was  thrown  to  the  surface,  buoyed  up  by  the 
money  which  they  had  made  in  gigantic  speculations. 
Though  known  as  the  shoddyites,  they  insinuated 
themselves  with  little  difficulty  into  the  most  distin 
guished  social  circles,  and  the  result  has  been  sadly 
detrimental.  A  good  name,  a  fair  education,  respect 
ability  arid  integrity,  had  previously  been  deemed  as 
necessary  passports  to  occupy  a  foremost  position  in 
society  ;  but  now  these  requisites  were  considered  as 


328  IS    REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE? 

secondary,  and  men  as  naught,  if  unaccompanied  by 
a  goodly  income,  and  a  sumptuous  display  of  the 
gewgaws  of  wealth.  The  fire  of  patriotism,  kindled 
by  the  war,  and  raised  to  a  fever  heat  during  the 
days  of  Chancellorsville,  and  others  equally  dark, 
almost  flickered  out  when  Lee  surrendered  at  Ap- 
pomatox.  The  spirit  of  greed  then  presided  at  the 
altar  where  the  sacred  fire  had  burned,  and  there  it 
presides  to-day,  inventing  new  means,  excavating 
new  channels,  and  planning  wicked  machinations,  to 
the  sole  end  that  its  domains  may  increase.  The 
church,  dedicated  to  the  worship  of  God,  greets  the 
passer-by  in  every  city,  village,  and  hamlet ;  but  the 
worship  of  God  has  become  a  mockery,  the  church 
a  convenient  means  of  keeping  up  appearances,  and 
the  only  God  foremost  in  heart,  and  foremost  in  hope 
and  feeling,  is  Mammon. 

This  headlong  pursuit  of  wealth,  one  of  the  results 
of  the  war  with  the  South,  has  given  us  in  the  North 
a  distinctively  wealthy  class  ;  not  less  so,  indeed,  than 
existed  in  the  South,  but  without  the  courtesy  and 
grace,  and  rare  accomplishments  and  culture,  which 
so  eminently  distinguished  the  latter.  To  shine  in 
this  high  social  plane,  education  and  a  polished  de 
meanor  are,  perhaps,  valuable  adjuncts  ;  but  unac 
companied  by  a  well-filled  exchequer,  they  amount 
to  nothing.  It  follows,  that  those  who  have  accu 
mulated  the  largest  means,  are  looked  up  to  with 
great  respect,  if  not  absolute  reverence,  and  that  a 
feeling  of  emulation  is  excited  among  those  less  suc 
cessful  in  the  race  for  lucre. 


IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE  ?  329 

A  few,  occupying  the  foremost  walks  in  the  learned 
professions,  or  distinguished  by  success  in  literature, 
science,  or  art,  may  enter  the  sacred  precincts  where 
this  new-fledged  American  aristocracy  holds  sway ; 
but  woe  to  the  poor  struggling  artist  who  knocks  for 
admittance,  seeking  only  the  feeble  pittance  of  en 
couragement.  Let  him  cast  his  easel  aside,  enter 
into  the  contest  for  the  almighty  dollar,  gather 
laurels  in  this  highly  desirable  field,  and  he  will  be 
greeted  with  a  thousand  welcomes. 

Indeed,  the  common  pander,  after  his  coffers  over 
flow  with  the  vile  returns  of  his  base  traffic,  may 
sooner  hope  to  be  received  with  approving  smiles, 
than  the  most  accomplished  of  the  impecunious 
dilettanti. 

Opulence  and  refinement  are,  as  a  rule,  found  ex 
isting  together.  It  has  been-  left  for  us  in  this  Re 
public,  and  in  this  generation,  to  witness  a  marked 
exception  to  the  rule. 

We  have  not  that  species  of  refinement  in  view 
which  consists  simply  in  a  palatial  residence,  in  a 
costly  service  of  silver  plate,  and  the  magnificent 
trumpery  generally  provided  by  the  jeweler,  the 
dry  goods  dealer,  or  upholsterer. 

It  is  with  well  filled  book  cases,  containing  works 
-of  standard  and  classic  authors ;  with  paintings  of 
the  old  masters,  commingled  with  those  of  the  best 
of  our  modern  and  native  artists ;  and,  in  a  word, 
with  the  productions  of  art,  that  we  associate  the 
idea  of  refinement. 

As  it  flows  from  aesthetic  culture,  it  can  hardly  be 


330  IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE? 

expected  to  exist  where  there  has  been  an  utter  lack 
of  that  culture.  The  mind  in  harmony  with  the 
good,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true,  may  possess  a  true 
appreciation  of  wealth  for  its  alkcommanding  power, 
but  its  sympathies  and  aspirations  will  range  far  be 
yond  this  material  province,  and  delight  in  making 
cheerful  excursions  in  the  realms  of  poelTy,  of  music, 
and  other  kindred  arts. 

It  is  a  fact  that  cannot  be  gainsayed,  that  the  race 
in  the  pecuniary  field  becomes  with  many  so  all  ab 
sorbing,  that  they  can  with  difficulty  preserve  their 
bodily  health,  to  say  nothing  of  their  mental  health. 
For  anything  like  aesthetic  culture,  they  betray  the 
most  undisguised  contempt.  Their  bodies  prostrated 
by  lack  of  physical  exercise,  their  nerves  unstrung 
by  the  constant  oscillations  of  speculation,  and  the 
concoction  of  schemes  for  coining  money,  as  the 
phrase  goes,  they  become  prematurely  old,  and  die 
with  the  harness  upon  their  backs.  They  have  no 
tastes,  natural  or  acquired,  except  for  the  acquisition 
of  money  ;  and  when  the  decay  of  the  body  becomes 
the  consequence  of  their  unremitting  labor  in  this 
direction,  they  have  no  means  of  deriving  mental 
comfort  from  any  source.  Gold  they  have  in  abund 
ance,  but  they  discover  that  it  will  produce  them 
nothing  but  food  and  raiment.  Their  satisfaction,  if 
any,  lies  in  the  consciousness  that  their  well  filled 
coffers  are  the  envy  of  therr  neighbors.  The  refine 
ments  of  cultured  life  they  might  indeed  easily  bring 
within  their  reach,  but  the  refinement  of  mind  -neces 
sary  to  their  proper  enjoyment  being  wanting,  they 


IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE  ?  331 

pay  a  severe  penalty  for  their  intense  struggle  in 
the  arena  of  greed. 

It  is  this  class  of  men  who  delight  in  forming  and 
managing  corporations.  Here  their  peculiar  talents 
have  free  scope  ;  here  they  can  scheme  to  their  heart's 
content ;  nay,  they  may  plunder  with  perfect  impun 
ity,  and  hope  to  escape  the  punishment  incurred  in 
an  individual  capacity.  No  wonder  that  it  is  an 
adage  of  the  common  law,  that  corporations  have  no 
souls.  As  convenient  instruments  for  legally  en 
riching  a  few  by  robbing  the  many,  they  are  unique. 
They  have  been  established  ostensibly  to  satisfy  the 
craving  needs  of  commerce.  It  cannot  be  denied 
that  in  many  instances  they  have  tended  to  subserve 
that  purpose ;  but  with  the  flimsy  safeguards  with 
which  they  have  been  surrounded  by  legislation,  they 
have  proved  a  curse  instead  of  a  blessing.  The 
East  India  Company  was,  perhaps,  the  first  which, 
on  account  of  its  indiscriminate  and  unblushing  plun 
der,  arrested  general  attention.  Bloated  with  millions 
upon  millions  of  revenues  wrung  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet  from  a  people  against  whom  they  waged 
war  without  any  pretext,  making  their  weak  defense 
a  pretext  for  the  imposition  of  unheard-of  tributes, 
they  defied  public  opinion,  and  even  found  the  gov 
ernment  of  England  to  abet  them.  This  grand 
scheme  of  organized  corruption  may  find  none  other 
which  may  safely  challenge  comparison  with  it  at 
the  present  time,  but  the  hour  seems  approaching 
when  its  past  claims  to  superiority  may  be  eclipsed. 

The  frauds  unearthed  in  the  Credit  Mobilier  in- 


332  IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE  ? 

vestigation  are  still  a  matter  of  indignant  comment 
among  the  people.  The  government  was  systemati 
cally  robbed,  and  in  great  part  by  Its  own  servants. 
The  investigation  was  only  partial.  To  have  been 
full  and  exhaustive,  it  would  have  necessitated  another 
atmosphere  than  Washington,  and  other  parties  than 
members  of  Congress.  Still,  it  disclosed  a  well 
arranged  system  of  wholesale  robbery,  which  for 
perfectness  of  details  and  ostensible  respectability  of 
its  authors,  is  without  example.  Such  a  scheme 
could  never  have  succeeded  in  any  European  gov 
ernment;  but  had  it  succeeded  in  such  government, 
it  is  certain  that  all  those  concerned  in  it,  whatever 
position  they  should  have  occupied  in  its  councils, 
or  in  social  circles,  would  have  shared  the  common 
ignominy  of  the  galley  slave.  In  the  United  States, 
considerably  more  leniency  is  displayed,  and  some, 
instead  of  luxuriating  in  solitary  confinement,  to  pine 
over  the  vicissitudes  consequent  on  dishonesty,  are 
clothed  with  the  dignity  of  Ministers  at  foreign 
courts.  All  are  permitted  to  retain  the  spoils  of 
their  pilfered  wealth,  and  untainted  by  public  opinion, 
and  shielded  by  the  technicalities  of  law — nay,  even 
honored  by  a  base  horde  of  scycophants — they  still 
concoct  schemes  which  will  open  to  them  new 
avenues  of  plunder. 

The  railroad  corporations  have,  by  gradual  en 
croachments  upon  the  sovereign  rights  of  the  people, 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  in  them  alone  the  right 
of  sovereignty  resides.  They  seem  inclined,  when 
their  own  interests  are  not  directly  at  stake,  to  per- 


IS    REPUBLICANISM   A    FAILURE?  333 

mit  the  people  to  exercise  all  residuary  legislation. 
Their  creatures  abound  in  both  political  parties,  and 
no  matter  which  is  successful,,  the  railroad  interests 
are  sure  to  be  well  represented.  If  they  have  failed 
in  electing  a  sufficient  number  of  their  despicable 
underlings  to  the  Legislature,  they  freely  indulge  in 
the  wholesome  pastime  of  drawing  gilt-edged  checks, 
which  has  an  unfailing  tendency  in  increasing  the 
number  of  their  henchmen  to  the  requisite  standard. 
They  pursue  a  similar  course  in  the  conventions,  and 
the  nominees  of  the  dear  people,  addressing  the 
dear  people  in  honeyed  accents,  and  proclaiming 
their  allegiance  to  the  dear  people,  are  found,  after 
their  election,  the  supple,  fawning  tools  of  the  rail 
road  influence.  These  assertions  are  so  susceptible 
of  proof  that  no  one  dare  gainsay  them.  The  prac 
tice  has  been  indulged  in  so  long,  and  with  so  much 
impunity,  that  they  seem  to  have  a  prescriptive  right 
to  indulge  in  it. 

We  must  confess,  that  latterly  the  press  and  the 
people  seemed  to  have  awakened  to  the  danger  of 
permitting  these  gigantic  monopolies  to  exercise 
their  imperial  dominion.  Until  the  laws  are  radi 
cally  changed,  and  they  are  made  subject  to  legisla 
tive  control,  the  evil  will  continue  to  exist  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree. 

As  the  people  have  a  direct  interest  in  low  fares 
and  freights,  once  that  the  tariff  with  respect  to 
them  is  settled,  the  railroads  will  have  no  occasion 
to  enter  the  arenajrf  politics.  They  may  then  hope 
to  appeal  to  the  good  sense  and  not  to  the  sordid 
passions  of  legislators. 


334  IS    REPUBLICANISM    A    FAILURE? 

One  great  stumbling  block  stands  directly  in  the 
way  ;  one  which  has  aided  these  corporations,  and 
one  on  which  they  may  continue  to  rely  for  success 
in  their  schemes.  This  stumbling  block  is  the  pri 
mary  election  system. 

Of  the  many  causes  that  have  conspired  to  bring 
our  republican  form  of  government  into  contempt,  to 
bring  bad  men  to  the  surface,  to  drive  good  men 
from  the  arena  of  politics,  to  aid  the  schemes  of  un 
principled  political  cabals,  the  primary  election  sys 
tem  has  been  the  foremost — nay,  we  may  go  further, 
and  say  that  it  has  been  the  fount  whence'  all  the 
evils  that  have  befallen  the  Republic  have  flowed. 

The  people  cannot  exercise  the  right  of  selecting 
their  nominees  for  office  on  the  radical  democratic 
plan.  They  cannot  assemble  according  as  their 
party  fealty  impels  them,  en  masse,  and  viva  voce 
proclaim  who  shall  be  their  candidates.  This  being 
impracticable,  they  must  either  permit  a  select  few, 
self-appointed,  to  do  the  business,  or  elso  they  .must 
resort  to  a  primary  election.  Now,  in  theory  it 
would  seem  that  nothing  could  be  more  fair  than 
this  system  of  selection ;  but  experience  has  taught 
us  that  nothing  could  be  more  corrupt,  or  have  a 
greater  tendency  to  defeat  the  popular  will.  Five 
or  six  men,  at  the  most,  in  each  ward  or  township, 
fix  up  the  tickets  which  are  to  be  voted.  They 
make  a  pretense,  sometimes,  of  having  the  tickets 
ratified  by  a  ward  meeting  ;  but  this  is  very  rare, 
and  even  then,  the  ward  meeting,  insufficient  in 
numbers,  is  conveniently  packed  in  the  interests  of 


IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE?  335 

the  original  manipulators.  The  officers  of  election 
are  county  committee-men,  previously  chosen  through 
means  of  a  primary.  These  being  in  full  accord 
with  the  ward  chieftains,  the  judges  and  inspectors 
are  chosen  with  an  eye  to  certain  victory.  If  the 
straggle  is  not  very  close,  then  there  is  no  occasion 
for  stuffing  a  ballot  or  adding  a  fictitious  name 
now  and  then  ;  but  if  the  fight  waxes  warm,  no  mat 
ter  how  much  the  outsiders  may  outnumber  the 
ring,  the  ring  is  sure  to  be  counted  in.  The  returns 
are  handed  in  to  the  county  committee,  and  what 
ever  protests  may  be  presented,  they  are  courteously 
laid  on  the  table. 

Each  party  has  its  county  committee.  A  few  in 
dividuals  always  turn  up  in  these  bodies,  whose  only 
object  seems  to  give  them  tone.  The  majority  are 
generally  men  without  means,  nor  tax-payers,  and 
whose  principal  occupation  would  appear  to  consist 
in  gauging  the  width  of  curb-stones.  When  the 
time  arrives  for  a  primary  election,  they  are  in 
all  their  glory,  and  many  of  them  whose  apparel  had 
grown  seedy,  are  found  adorned  with  the  best  of  slop 
clothes.  They  are  consulted  with,  mysteriously,  by 
candidates  for  office,  or  more  generally,  if  a  legisla 
tive  election  is  soon  to  take  place,  by  potent  manipu 
lators  of  the  railroads,  or  by  senatorial  aspirants. 

They  call  primary  elections,  settle  the  political 
tests  which  are  to  be  applied,  appoint  judges  and  in 
spectors,  regulate  the  style  of  ballot  box  to  be  used, 
and  prescribe  other  details.  As  they  are  invariably 
intimate  associates,  frequently  the  creatures,  of  the 


336  IS    REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE? 

ward  managers,  it  is  easy  to  perceive  the  disadvantage 
under  which  those  outside  of  the  ring  must  labor  to 
compass  success  against  those  within  the  ring. 

The  ballot-box  is  frequently  hidden  from  sight  by  a 
high  barrier,  and  the  voter  remains  in  doubt  whether 
his  ballot,  or  some  substitute  therefor,  has  been  depos 
ited.  The  polls  are  surrounded  by  "  piece-makers," 
or  "  strikers,"  who  are  not  over  choice  in  their  exple 
tives,  under  the  influence  of  an  unlimited  supply  of 
undiluted  alcohol. 

Such  circumstances  being  generally  known  to  co 
exist  with  primaries,  the  result  is  that  the  better  class 
of  voters  take  no  hand  in  them,  and  that  the  schemes 
of  the  managers  are  successfully  carried  out. 

The  nominating  convention,  thus  chosen,  assembles 
and  nominates  candidates  for  office.  If  the  party  is 
in  a  minority,  with  feeble  prospects  of  victory,  the 
candidates  are  selected  either  as  they  are  popular 
or  capable.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  party  is  in  a 
majority,  combinations  are  made,  caucuses  are  held? 
slates  made  up  and  voted  for,  regardless  of  the  char 
acter  or  the  ability  of  the  aspirants.  The  majority  of 
the  convention  is  under  the  sway  of  the  ward  manip 
ulators  ;  and  the  ward  manipulators  are  under  the 
sway  of  some  high  Federal  or  State  official ;  and  these 
latter,  virtually,  or  their  agents,  are  those  that  set 
up  and  pull  down  candidates.  The  choice  seems  to 
spring  from  the  people,  while  it  is  in  reality  effected 
covertly  by  an  oligarchy.  Money  becomes  an  indis 
pensable  adjunct  in  carrying  out  these  political 
schemes.  Its  magical  touch  brings  county-committee 


IS   REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE?  337 

men  to  their  senses,  and  it  has  a  remarkable  effect 
in  occasionally  removing  all  conscientious  scruples 
from  recalcitrant  members  of  conventions.  It  will 
easily  be  perceived  that  railroad  corporations,  under 
such  a  system,  can  experience  but  little  difficulty  in 
electing,  in  a  representative  capacity,  those  who  will 
best  subserve  their  interests.  As  this  system  is  in 
vogue  everywhere,  almost,  in  the  United  States,  it  is 
very  evident  that  the  people  generally  have  very 
little  voice  in  the  selection  of  their  officials. 

We  know  of  no  remedy  suggested  or  presented 
which  will  effectually  reach  this  great  evil.  It  stands 
out  in  all  its  naked  deformity,  corrupting  the  fount 
of  political  power,  and  yet  we  seem  powerless.  It 
has  arms  longer  than  the  devil-fish,  and  its  tenacious 
hold  is  felt  by  nearly  all  occupying  official  positions, 
from  constable  to  the  President. 

Occasionally  its  schemes  are  prostrated  when  lo 
cal  independent  parties  gain  the  ascendency.  But 
as  independent  parties  rely  on  self-constituted  ap 
pointing  committees,  they  obtain  only  a  short  lease 
of  power.  The  people  permit  themselves  to  be 
hoodwinked  into  the  belief  that  they  really  exercise 
the  right  of  sovereignty  through  conventions,  and 
resent  anything  like  its  palpable  usurpation  by  self- 
appointed  bodies.  The  attempt  recently  made  to  or 
ganize  an  Independent  party  on  a  national  basis 
failed  completely,  and  we  are  not  sure  but  that,  had 
it  succeeded,  it  would  soon  have  fallen  into  the  old 
party  grooves. 

The  time  may  come  when  the  evil  may  be  allayed. 

22 


338  IS   REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE  ? 

The  monster  must,  however,  be  fought  upon  his  own 
ground.  There  must  be  no  fleeing  from  his  pres 
ence,  and  he  must  be  taught  the  amenities  which  be 
long  to  courtesy  and  fair  dealing.  The  education 
and  instincts  of  the  great  majority  of  people  are  such 
that  they  abominate  primaries.  Let  them  once  thor 
oughly  understand  that  it  is  the  source  whence 
spring  high  taxes,  the  defalcations  of  officials,  the 
low  standard  of  statesmanship — that  it  may  pass  over 
to  their  control,  that  their  taxes  will  consequently  be 
lowered,  that  officials  will  no  longer  indulge  in  pecula 
tion,  and  that  the  halls  of  legislation  will  be  purified — 
and  we  think  that  they  would  take  a  very  lively  in 
terest  in  these  peculiar  institutions.  They  would  see 
that  no  clumsy  barriers  were  erected  to  shield  the 
ballot  box  from  scrutiny ;  that  every  ballot  was  fairly 
deposited  and  fairly  counted,  and  that  no  hired  bully 
should  be  permitted  to  intimidate  by  word  or  sign. 

The  great  difficulty,  however,  is  that  they  will  not, 
taking  full  cognizance  of  so  great  a  mischief,  take 
steps  at  once  so  simple  to  remove  it.  The  recent 
political  upheaval  securing  the  Democracy  a  large 
majority  in  the  next  House,  is  certainly  indicative 
that  the  people  have  at  last  awoke  from  their  apathy 
and  will  never  tolerate  anything  of  Caesarism.  The 
evils  under  a  military  administration  had  grown  so 
great  that  the  party  in  power  had  to  indulge  in  the 
process  of  self  scourging  so  common  among  the  saintly 
crew  of  primeval  days.  This  salutary  party  dis 
cipline,  amounting  as  it  frequently  does  to  political 
hari  kari,  is  exceedingly  rare  in  these  days,  and  let 


IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE?  339 

us  rejoice  in  the  hope  that  it  will  be  more  common  in 
future. 

It  augurs  much  good  to  the  future  of  this  great 
Kepublic  ;  it  proves  conclusively  that  the  people  may 
for  a  long  time  slumber  upon  their  rights,  but  that 
there  is  a  moment  of  awakening,  when  wrath  and 
vengeance  are  dealt  out. 

The  administration  of  the  law  in  the  United  States 
has  not  been  such  as  to  warrant  the  belief  that  a 
republic  has  any  advantages,  in  this  respect,  over  a 
monarchy.  The  delays  have  been  tedious  and  har- 
rassing,  and  the  decisions  too  frequently  grounded 
on  technicalities  and  rendered  uncertain  by  reversal. 
The  criminal  side  has  failed  to  mete  out  justice  to 
wealthy  malefactors,  (Tweed,  perhaps,  excepted) 
and  it  is  notorious  that  only  the  poorer  grade  of  crim 
inals  can  be  convicted.  This  arises,  in  the  main, 
from  a  defective  jury  system,  the  manner  of  sum 
moning  jurors,  and  the  character  of  the  jurors  them 
selves.  Given,  an  intelligent,  honest  jury,  and  they 
will  readily  see  through  the  quirks  and  films  of  law, 
and  give  the  culprit  his  deserts  ;  and  this,  too,  despite 
eloquent  counsel,  dealing  in  tawdry  sophistry. 

Justice  should  be  administered  with  uniformity, 
impartiality,  and  speed.  The  decisions  upon  which 
the  law  grounds  itself  in  arriving  at  new  decisions 
are  entirely  too  voluminous  and  clashing — a  system 
of  codification  on  an  extensive  scale  has  become  a 
necessity.  It  would  abridge  the  time  of  courts,  the 
labors  of  attorneys,  and  leave  the  issue  to  something 
besides  chance.  Such  a  code,  out  of  the  legal  chaos 
which  exists,  would  require  considerable  time  to  bring 


340  IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE? 

it  to  any  degree  of  perfection.  There  should  be  a 
sort  of  international  congress  of  the  various  States, 
to  take  this  all-important  matter  in  hand,  to  the  end 
that  the  code,  when  duly  compiled,  would  possess 
something  like  national  uniformity.  The  citizen  of 
Maine,  desirous  of  emigrating  to  California,  would 
then  understand  the  status  under  which  his  property 
would  be  subjected,  and  not  be  terrified  into  remain 
ing  in  his  primeval  abode  by  the  specter  of  loose 
laws,  offering  his  household  gods  but  inadequate  pro 
tection. 

That  no  effort  of  this  kind  has  yet  been  made  is 
not  creditable  to  American  statesmanship.  When 
the  primary  convention  system  is  thoroughly  purified, 
and  the  Legislature  is  found  embodying  capacity  and 
worth,  and  not  a  sordid  spirit  of  selfishness,  then  this 
grand  consummation  may  be  realized. 

Peculation  in  office  may  be  justly  said  to  be  one 
of  the  greatest  of  all  evils  affecting  republics,  es 
pecially  as  witnessed  in  our  own  government.  Of 
fices  themselves  are  uselessly  multiplied.  Some  take 
the  character  of  sinecures  ;  and,  in  general,  they 
seem  less  a  necessity  for  a  sound  and  honest  admin 
istration  of  public  affairs  than  as  rewards  for  patri 
otic  exertions  in  the  slough  of  politics.  At  the  re 
currence  of  every  election,  candidates  loom  up  in 
infinite  number.  Their  party  services  are  made  the 
pretense  of  their  candidacy.  The  money  they  have 
spent  in  the  glorious  cause  of  Republicanism  or 
Democracy  is  the  argument  most  potently  urged. 
And  it  is  a  potent  argument  indeed,  outweighing 
considerations  of  integrity  and  capacity.  When 


IS    REPUBLICANISM    A   FAILURE?  341 

these  apostles  of  the  party,  so  to  speak,  are  elevated 
to  the  dignities  and  partake  of  the  emoluments  of 
office,  it  is  only  natural  that  they  should  take  a 
calm  review  of  their  financial  position.  They  ascer 
tain,  to  their  infinite  surprise,  that  taking  in  consid 
eration  the  amounts  they  have  subscribed  for 
music,  fire-works,  torch-light  processions,  speakers, 
and  meetings ;  the  sums  they  have  been  assessed  by 
county  committees  and  ward  manipulators,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  numerous  little  bills  paid  to  saloon 
keepers  and  corner  groceries,  a  very  consider 
able  inroad  has  been  made  on  the  total  salary  or 
perquisites  they  are  to  receive  during  their  term  of 
office. 

Being  looked  upon  as  among  the  favored  few  of 
the  community,  they  are  always  held  in  remem 
brance  whenever  an  occasion  presents  itself  for 
raising  funds  for  charitable  or  kindred  institutions. 
To  refuse  a  contribution  under  such  a  pressing  con 
tingency  would  detract  sadly  from  their  popularity  ; 
and  hence,  prudence,  if  not  the  dictates  of  an  over 
whelming  benevolence,  permits  their  names  to  appear 
prominently  among  those  of  the  most  philanthropic 
citizens. 

The  ever-dreaded  moment  gradually  draws  nigh, 
when  the  sweet  cares  of  office  are  to  cease.  Already, 
marshaled  in  the  field,  appears  an  ambitious  host, 
patriots  of  long  standing,  who  have  performed  yeo 
man's  service  in  the  party  ranks,  hungering  and  thirst 
ing  for  the  spoils  ;  who  have  matured  their  plans  of 
victory  amid  midnight  wassail,  extending  to  the  wee 
hours  of  morn.  The  "  in  "  must  now  fight  the  "outs." 


342  IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE? 

Single-handed,  he  must  contend  against  the  many. 
His  cry  must  be  "  Avaunt,  ye  birds  of  prey  !  I 
neither  expect  quarter  nor  shall  I  give  quarter." 
His  purse-strings  fly  open,  he  supplies  himself  with 
the  sinews  of  war,  marches  boldly  to  the  encounter 
— and  does  he  win  ?  No  !  He  has  been  betrayed 
by  the  ward  manager,  outwitted  by  the  county 
committee-man,  and  deliberately  sold  out  by  the  con 
vention.  He  suddenly  finds  himself  minus  friends, 
minus  money,  minus  any  business  or  avocation  where 
by  he  may  earn  a  decent  livelioood. 

No  wonder,  such  being  too  often  the  fate  of  the 
politician,  that  he  is  tempted,  while  occupying  office, 
to  enter  into  crooked  and  ugly  courses,  and  to  be 
come,  not  a  common  swindler  or  thief,  indeed,  but 
simply  a  defaulter.  When  the  law  shall  be  so 
amended  that  this  class  of  knaves  will  be  put  on  a 
footing  with  the  most  abject  habitues  of  the  peniten 
tiary,  citizens  may  reasonably  expect  lower  rates  of 
taxation  and  more  general  prosperity. 

Universal  suffrage  has,  perhaps,  too  wide  a  scope 
for  its  proper  exercise,  where  there  are  so  many  elec 
tions  and  candidates  for  office.  The  sacredness  of 
the  trust — and  we  consider  the  right  of  suffrage  a 
holy  trust — ought  no  more  to  be  violated  than  those 
other  duties  which  imperatively  call  for  the  exercise 
of  judgment  and  honesty. 

If  nine-tenths  of  all  officials  were  appointed  to 
hold  their  positions  during  good  behavior,  a  better 
class  of  men  would  be  found  seeking  the  suffrages  of 
the  people.  The  good  character  of  those  in  office 
would  raise  the  standard  of  merit  to  such  a  degree 


IS    REPUBLICANISM    A    FAILURE?  343 

that  the  incompetent  and  venal  aspirant  would  qui 
etly  disappear. 

We  must  necessarily  assume  that  the  appointing 
power  would  be  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  an  as 
sumption  which  will  cause  the  cynic  to  smile  more 
derisively  than  usual,  especially  when  many  of  the 
appointments  of"  the  Silent  Man  "  on  the  Avenue  are 
taken  into  consideration. 

We  have  traveled  but  little  of  the  ground  originally 
marked  out  when  we  began  this  article.  The  subject 
is  one  of  the  highest  importance.  It  is  not  free  from 
difficulties,  and  to  the  philosophic  mind  offers  much 
food  for  reflection.  The  ideas  we  have  thrown  out 
are  in  the  main  crude,  and  calculated  rather  to  sug 
gest  than  to  instruct. 

We  are  by  no  means  satisfied  that  Republican 
Government,  as  exemplified  in  the  United  States,  is 
a  failure  ;  but  are  painfully  conscious  that  it  possesses 
very  serious  defects,  which,  were  it  not  for  a  contin 
ually  developing  popular  intelligence,  would  furnish 
grounds  for  its  early  destruction. 

The  mightiest  prop  upon  which  it  rests  is  the  com 
mon  school.  We  know  in  theory  that  it  is  the  best 
form  of  government  to  ensure  liberty  and  equality  be 
fore  the  law.  The  wiser  and  better  the  masses,  the 
more  the  practice  must  conform  to  the  theory,  until 
finally  many  of  the  evils  referred  to  will  disappear. 
All  the  good  to  come  depends  upon  legislation — intel 
ligent,  discriminating,  and  honest.  The  public 
school,  we  have  said,  is  the  prop  upon  which  the 
entire  fabric  rests.  Let  it  be  guarded  with  an  ever 
vigilant  eye  by  every  American,  and  let  the  youth- 


344  IS    REPUBLICANISM   A   FAILURE? 

ful  mind,  as  it  takes  in  the  ordinary  gamut  of  studies, 
be  taught  the  glories  as  well  as  the  defects  of  repub 
lics  ;  the  causes  of  their  success,  and  the  poisons 
which  sap  their  growth. 

The  individual  who  prepares  a  text-book  which 
will  meet  this  requirement  will  rank  forever  as  a 
public  benefactor,  and  outlive  in  memory  the  names 
of  mighty  heroes,  whose  deeds  are  inscribed  upon 
marble  or  engraven  in  brass. 


EW  TXEMARKS  ON  THE  OUBJECT 
OF  WEARING    APPAREL. 


W 


EFORE  I  begin  to  give  advice  to  you,  I 
'must  acknowledge  the  medicine  I  offer  is  cer 
tainly  unpalatable  to  me  at  this  time  of  life,  who 
have  passed  along  (considerably  out  of  my  teens)  ; 
but  as  this  is  the  last  article  in  the  volume,  I  thought 
I  would  present  a  few  remarks  upon  the  training  of 
children,  particularly  little  girls.  The  custom  of 
parents  sending  their  children  to  school  at  the  age 
of  four  and  five  years,  is  not  commendable.  Their 
little  forms  being  so  full  of  activity,  it  becomes  wear 
isome  to  them  to  sit  so  many  hours  on  their  benches  ; 
and  their  brains  become  taxed  too  much  with  their 
lessons.  If  mothers  desire  their  little  ones  to  learn 
at  home,  they  may  provide  a  pictorial  alphabet, 
which  is  quite  sufficient  to  educate  and  amuse  them  * 
until  they  are  seven  years  old.  On  the  subject  of 
clothes,  I  know  fashion  will  have  her  sway  to  some 
extent ;  but  if  the  little  girls  of  this  day  were  little 
girls  in  our  mothers'  time,  the  fashion  of  wearing 
short  clothes  at  the  knee  would  have  proved  shock 
ing.  I  think  for  one  it  is  most  unbecoming,  and  in 
a  great  degree  injurious  to  their  health  ;  and  cer 
tainly  the  fashion  is  an  immodest  one  ;  every  fashion 
seems  in  these  days  to  be  carried  to  extremes.  My 
little  daughter,  when  living,  was  in  the  habit,  every 
evening,  of  reading  the  articles  upon  the  fashions  of 


346  A   FEW    REMARKS 

the  day ;  possibly,  this  was  not  always  a  labor  of  love,  I 
being  a  rather  fidgetty  listener,  nor  at  the  same  time 
one  of  those  conceited  old  persons,  who  consider  that 
to  minister  unto  them  is,  to  the  young,  a  p;  ivilege 
invaluable. 

There  have  been  times,  when  perceiving  Oi  itavia's 
bright  eye  wander  and  her  voice  drop  into  a  monot 
onous  absent  tone,  I  have  inwardly  sighed  over  those 
inevitable  infirmities  which  render  each  generation 
in  its  turn  dependent  on  the  succeeding  one.  But, 
there — that  will  do,  and  I  shall  rather  forfeit  my  own 
undeniable  pleasure  than  thus  to  make  a  martyr  of 
my  little  girl.  But  then,  few  can  have  lived  to  my 
length  of  days  without  being  taught  the  blessedness 
of  labors  of  love  but  labors  of  duty  ;  and  I  was  glad, 
even  at  the  cost  of  some  personal  pain,  to  see  my 
child  learning  this  lesson  after  me  ;  conquering  her 
self,  accommodating  the  frivolous  tastes  of  youth  to 
the  prosy  likings  of  old  age,  and  acquiring,  even  in 
so  small  a  thing  as  the  reading  of  a  newspaper,  that 
habit  of  self-control  and  self-abnegation  which  we 
women  have  to  practice  with  or  against  our  will  all 
our  lives.  So  after  going  through  the  leading  arti 
cles — by  the  way,  what  a  curious  fact  of  modern  in 
tellectual  advance  is  that  page  of  Times  leaders  ; 
thought  out  with  infinite  labor,  compiled  with  surpass 
ing  skill,  influencing  the  whole  world's  destinies  one 
day,  to  become  the  next  mere  waste  paper — now, 
my  dear,  I  leave  the  choice  to  you,  read  anything 
that  you  consider  amusing.  "  Amusing !  "  as  if  she 
doubted  whether  anything  in  the  Times  could  come 
under  that  head.  But  suddenly  her  countenance 
cleared.  "'An  American  Bridal  Trousseau' — will 
that  do,  mamma,  dear  ?  "  I  nodded,  and  she  began  to 
read :  "  '  Extraordinary  Marriage  Ceremony— Cuban 
Don — Young  Lady  of  New  York.'  Why,  I  declare, 
it  is  a  list  of  her  clothes.  And  such  a  quantity, 


ON   WEARING    APPAREL.  347 

only  hear :  *  One  blue  silk,  ruffled  to  the  waist ; 
one  green  and  white  double  skirt,  trimmed  with  black 
lace ;  one  light  blue  silk,  chintz  flowers  down  the 
skirt,  trimmed  with  deep  fringe  to  match  ;  one  steel- 
colored  silk,  with  purple  velvet  flowers,  trimmed  with 
wide  bands  of  purple  velvet,  edged  with  black  lace ; 
a  surplice  waist,  trimmed  to  match  the  skirt ;  one 
Suisse  dress,  the  skirt  formed  with  clusters  of  ruffles 
and  tucks,  the  waist  to  match ;  one  white  Suisse  mus 
lin  dress,  five  flounces,  edged  with  narrow  valen- 
ciennes  lace  ;  one  white  Suisse  dress-skirt,  with  three 
flounces,  three  ruffles  on  each  flounce,  pink  ribbon 
underneath ;  one  Suisse  dress  tucked  to  the  waist ; 
six  dresses  of  poplin,  merino,  and  Ottoman  velvet — '  " 

"  Stop,  stop  ;  let  us  take  breath,  child  ;  poplin,  me 
rino,  Ottoman  velvet,  and  how  many  more  was  it? 
Suisse  muslin,  silk  chintz,  and  something  with  a 
surplice  waist,  whatever  that  may  be." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  n't  know,  mamma,"  laughed  my 
child,  "  though  you  do  think  me  such  an  extravagant 
young  lady.  Not  so  bad  as  this  one,  anyhow ;  oh, 
oh,  oh,  just  listen :  '  Eighteen  street  dresses  of 
rich,  plain,  and  figured  silks,  and  two  flounces ; 
also,  moire  antique,  made  in  the  newest  and  most 
fashionable  style ;  twelve  afternoon  dresses,  consist 
ing  of  grenadines,  organdies,  and  tissue,  all  varied 
in  styles  of  making ;  twelve  evening  dresses ;  one 
pink  embossed  velvet,  trimmed  with  the  richest  point 
de  Venice  ;  one  white  silk  tissue  dress-skirt,  embroid 
ered  and  trimmed  with  blonde  lace  ;  one  pearl-colored 
silk,  double  skirt,  with  bouquets  of  embossed  velvet ; 
three  white  crepe  dresses,  ornamented  with  bunches 
of  raised  flowers;  three  white  tulle  dresses,  with 
colored  polka  spots  of  floss  silk,  to  be  worn  over 
white  silk  skirts ;  six  dinner  dresses,  one  white  silk, 
embroidered  with  gold ;  one  pink  moire  antique,  very 
elegant  side  stripes  ;  one  blue  silk,  with  lace  flounces ; 


848  A   FEW  REMARKS 

one  amber  silk,  with  black  lace  tissue  dress;  one 
black  moire  antique,  trimmed  with  velvet  and  lace ; 
one  white  moire  antique,  with  puffings  of  illusion, 
and  the  sleeves  made  in  Princess  Clothilde  style ; 
twelve  muslin  dresses  made  with  flounces  and  simple 
ruffles."1 

"  That's  a  merry  girl.  I  began  to  think  the  only 
simple  article  the  lady  possessed  was  her  husband." 

"Mamma,  how  funny  you  are.  Well,  will  you 
hear  to  the  end?  " 

"Well,  goon." 

She  did  so.  "  '  Three  riding  habits  ;  one  black 
Canton  crape,  trimmed  with  velvet  buttons  ;  three 
opera  cloaks ' ;  and  herein  are  mentioned  bonnets, 
shoes,  and  underclothing  that  would  fill  a  small  vol 
ume."  Ending,  my  daughter  regarded  me  with  a 
puzzled  air.  "Well?" 

"  Well,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it  all  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  what  a  contrast  all  these  gowns 
are  to  the  one  the  lady  must  some  day,  may  any  day, 
put  on — plain  Avhite,  frilled,  probably,  but  still  plain 
enough  ;  since,  after  her  first  dressing,  or  rather 
being  dressed  in  it,  no  one  will  care  to  look  at  it  or 
her  any  more." 

Octavia  started — "  Mamma,  you  do  n't  mean  a 
shroud?" 

"  Why  not,  child  ? — when,  flounce  and  furbellow 
as  we  may,  we  shall  all  want  a  shroud  some  time." 

"  But  it  is  so  dreadful !  " 

"  Not  when  one  approaches  so  near  the  time  of 
wearing  it  as  I  do.  Nor  at  any  age  is  it  half  so 
dreadful  to  think  of  ourself,  or  of  any  fair  body  one 
loves,  wrapped  up  in  this  garment,  as  to  think  of  it 
decked  out  like  this  young  creature,  whose  trousseau 
forms  a  feature  in  the  public  newspapers.  She  ap 
parently  comes  to  her  husband  so  buried  in  clothes, 


ON   WEARING   APPAREL.  S49 

that  he  must  feel,  poor  man,  as  if  he  had  married  a 
walking  linen  draper's  shop,  instead  of  a  flesh-and- 
blood  woman  with  a  heart  and  brain,  a  sweet  human 
body,  and  a  responsible  immortal  soul ;  ask  yourself, 
would  you  wish  to  be  so  married,  my  dear  ?  " 

A  toss  of  the  curls,  a  flash  of  the  indignant  young 
eyes — 

"  Mamma,  I'd  rather  be  married  like — like — pa 
tient  Griselda ! " 

Suggesting  that,  out  of  the  reign  of  romance, 
Griselda's  costume  might  be,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
cold,  I  nevertheless  cordially  agreed  with  my  little 
girl,  as  a  matter  of  principle. 

When  she  was  gone  to  her  music  lesson,  I  sat 
thinking — you  hardly  know  how  much  we  old  folks 
enjoy  thinking — the  mere  act  of  running  over,  men 
tally,  times,  places,  people,  and  things — moralizing 
upon  past,  present,  and  future,  and  evolving  out  of 
this  undisturbed  quietude  of  meditation,  that  wisdom 
which  is  supposed  to  be  the  peculiar  quality  of  old 
age.  A  solitude  that  ripens  thought,  smooths  down 
prejudices,  disposes  to  kindness  and  charity.  I 
could  not  get  her  out  of  my  head,  this  New  York 
belle,  with  her  innumerable  quantity  of  clothes ;  for 
disguise  them  as  you  will  in  dresses,  costumes, 
or  toilettes,  they  all  resolve  themselves  into  mere 
clothes — used  for  the  covering  of  this  perishable  ma 
chine  of  bone,  muscle,  sinew,  and  flesh.  One  is 
tempted  to  inquire,  viewing  with  the  mind's  eye  such 
a  mountain  of  millinery,  what  had  become  of  this  in 
finitesimal  me — the  real  woman  whom  the  Cuban 
gentleman  married  ? — if  it  were  not  crushed  out  of 
identity  by  this  fearful  superincumbent  weight,  the 
weight  of  $16,400  worth  of  clothes  ? 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  undervalue  dress.  I  am 
neither  Quaker,  Puritan,  nor  devotee.  I  think 
there  is  not  a  straw  to  choose  between  the  monk  of 


350  A   FEW   REMARKS 

old,  whose  washing  days  occurred  about  twice  in  a 
life-time,  and  the  modern  saint,  who  imagines  he 
glorifies  God  by  a  ragged  shirt  and  a  dirty  pocket- 
handkerchief.  They  are  both  equal,  and  equal  fools. 
Scarcely  less  so  is  the  "  religious "  woman,  who 
makes  it  a  matter  of  conscience  to  hide  or  neutralize 
every  physical  beauty  with  which  nature  has  endowed 
her,  as  if  He  who  so  clothes  the  fields  with  grass  that 
even  the  meanest  forms  of  his  handiwork  are  largely 
beyond  all  our  poor  imitating,  were  displeased  at  our 
delighting  ourselves  in  that  wherein  He  must  delight 
continually.  As  if  nature  and  grace  were  two  opposite 
attributes,  and  there  could  be  any  beauty  which  did 
not  proceed  from  God. 

But  every  virtue  may  be  exaggerated  into  a  vice, 
and  I  often  think  the  ever-increasing  luxury  of  this 
century  is  carrying  to  a  dangerous  extreme  a  wo 
man's  right  of  making  herself  charming  by  means 
of  self-adornment,  and  it  seems  to  me  the  variety  ex 
acted  by  fashion  is  a  great  evil.  Formerly,  our  an 
cestors  used  to  dress  richly  and  handsomely,  but  it 
was  in  a  solid,  useful  style  of  handsomeness.  Gowns 
were  not  made  for  a  month  or  a  year,  they  were 
meant  to  last  a  life-time,  or  perhaps  two  life-times, 
for  they  frequently  descended  from  mother  to  daugh 
ter.  The  stuffs  which  composed  them  were  corres 
pondingly  substantial. 

Even  though  this  extravagant  personal  luxury  be 
temporarily  beneficial  to  commerce,  to  continue  it  is 
doing  evil  that  good  may  come.  It  injures  fatally 
the  aggregate  morals  of  a  country,  and  lowers  its 
standard  of  ideal  right.  We  find  that  in  its  deca 
dence  and  ultimate  degradation.  For  what  sort  of 
men  and  women  are  likely  to  result  from  the  children 
of  a  generation  which  has  its  pocket-handkerchiefs  of 
point  d'Alencon,  at  $200  each,  and  Valenciennes, 
worth  $250,  the  richest  ever  imported  ?  Oh,  my 


ON   WEARING   APPAREL.  351 

sisters,  these  were  not  the  sort  of  brides  who  became 
Cornelias,  Volumnias,  and  mothers  of  the  Gracchi. 

Perhaps  there  was  some  foundation  in  the  cry  set 
up  and  laughed  down  awhile  ago,  that  the  terrible 
commercial  crisis  of  1857  was  caused  by  the  extrav 
agance  of  women's  dress,  especially  American  wo 
men.  I  know  there  are  here  many  prudent,  practi 
cal  young  men — not  too  deeply  smitten  to  feel  "  all 
for  love  and  the  world  well  lost,"  yet  secretly  crav 
ing  for  home  and  its  comforts  and  respectabilities, 
and  acute  enough  to  see  that  a  bachelor  is  never 
worth  to  himself  or  society  or  the  State  as  much  as  a 
man  who  is  married  and  settled — yet  who  are  often 
deterred  from  that  salutary  duty  by — what  ?  A 
vague  dread  of  their  wives'  clothes  ! 

I  have  one  more  word  to  say,  and  then  I  have 
done.  A  woman  should  always  remember  that  her 
clothes  should  be,  in  expense  and  quantity,  propor 
tionate  to  her  own  circumstances,  and  not  those  of 
her  neighbor.  The  mingling  of  classes  is  good — 
that  is,  the  frequent  association  of  those  persons  who, 
in  effect,  from  one  and  the  same  class,  being  alike  in 
tastes,  sympathies,  moral  purposes,  and  mental  cali 
ber — however  various  be  their  degrees  of  annual  in 
come,  worldly  station,  profession,  trade,  or  unem 
ployed  leisure,  provided,  always,  that  the  one  meet 
ing  point  of  rivalry  lies  in  themselves  and  not  their 
externals.  Even  mothers  of  families  one  sees  fall 
ing  into  this  error,  and  wearing  gowns,  shawls,  etc., 
that  must  of  necessity  have  pinched  the  family  in 
come  for  many  a  day.  My  dear  ladies,  will  you  not 
see  that  a  good  daily  joint  of  meat  on  your  table  is 
far  more  conducive  to  the  health  and  happiness  of 
those  sitting  round  it  than  the  handsomest  silk  dress 
placed  at  the  head  of  it  ?  The  one  economy  which 
I  have  always  found  safest  to  practice,  as  being  least 
harmful  to  one's  self  and  least  annoying  to  other  peo- 


352     A   FEW   REMARKS    ON   WEARING   APPAREL. 

pie,  was  clothes  !  And  that  I  shall  try,  if  possible,  to 
teach  my  readers.  Not  that  mean  economy  which 
hides  poor  materials  by  a  tawdry  making  up — dis 
guising  cheap  silks,  coarse  linen,  and  flimsy  muslin 
by  a  quantity  of  false  lace,  sham  jewelry,  dirty  rib 
bons,  and  unnatural  flowers — but  that  quiet  indepen 
dence  with  which,  believing  that  the  woman  herself 
is  superior  to  any  thing  she  wears,  and  as  happy  in 
a  dress  of  last  year's  fashion  as  if  one  had  at  com 
mand  the  whole  establishment  of  the  renowned  Jane 
Clark,  (who  they  say,  but  for  the  credit  of  woman 
hood  I  hope  it  is  untrue,  ordered  herself  to  be  buried 
in  a  point-lace  shroud)  the  matter  of  clothes  seems 
often  a  very  trivial  thing,  hardly  worth  indeed  the 
prosy  dissertation  I  have  been  led  to  give  upon  it. 
Let  us  only  so  clothe  ourselves  that  this  frail  body  of 
ours,  while  it  does  last,  may  not  be  unpleasing  in  the 
sight  of  those  who  love  us ;  and  let  us  so  use  it  in 
this  life  that  in  the  life  to  come  it  may  be  found 
worthy  to  be  clothed  upon  with  its  Maker's  own 
glorious  immortality. 


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